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DAVID  KERR 


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THE  DAUGHTER  OF  DAVID  KERR 


C"^- 


Gloria  Kerr. 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF 
DAVID    KERR 


BY 

HARRY  KING  TOOTLE 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

M.  LEONE   BRACKER 
SECOND  EDITION 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

1912 


COPTBIGHT 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 
1912 


Published  September,  1912 
Second  Edition,  September  25,  1912 


Copyrighted  in  Great  Britain 


PKBSS  OF   THE   VAIL    COlfPANT 
COSHOCTON,    U.    S.   A. 


TO 
JUDGE  O.  M.  SPENCER 


222G215 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Gloria  Kerr Frontispiece 

"Gloria,  tell  me  that  you  love  me'*  ....  184 
"Licked !  Licked!  I  've  just  begun  to  fight"  .  198 
She  felt  for  the  beat  of  his  heart  .  .  .  .286 
"1  am  begging  you  to  become  my  wife"     .      .   322 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  DAVID 
KERR 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  surprise  which  Gloria  knew  her 
unexpected  arrival  would  occasion  was 
even  greater  than  she  could  imagine. 
Several  things  had  happened  in  Belmont  re- 
cently to  disturb  David  Kerr,  and  he  was  in 
no  frame  of  mind  for  further  complications. 

The  stock-yards  company  was  beginning  to 
hint  at  certain  favors  it  wished  extended,  and 
with  an  election  coming  on,  Kerr  was  in  no 
mood  for  such  concessions.  Worse  still,  the 
Belmont  News  had  just  changed  ownership, 
and  the  new  editor  was  not  displaying  that 
subservient  fealty  which  had  characterized  all 
Belmont  papers  in  the  past.  Already  the 
News  was  snapping  at  his  heels  and  asking 
questions  which  were  extremely  pointed.     To 

[13] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

have  Gloria  descend  upon  him  at  such  a  time 
was  too  much  for  even  David  Kerr.  His 
mastery  of  the  situation  caused  him  to  have  no 
great  fear  for  the  stock-yard  demands  and  the 
newspaper  outcry,  vexing  problems  though 
they  were,  but  Gloria — Gloria  in  Belmont — 
was  quite  another  proposition. 

"Father,  this  is  Gloria,"  explained  David 
Kerr's  daughter  when  she  had  established 
telephone  connection  with  Locust  Lawn. 

"Gloria!"  he  exclaimed.     "Where  are  you?" 

"Here,  in  Belmont,  at  the  station.  I  just 
came." 

"How  did  it  happen?     I  was  n't  looking  for 

you." 

"Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me?" 

"Glad  to  see  youl  Of  course  I  am,  but  it 's 
a  surprise.  When  did  you  come?  How  do 
you  happen  to  be  here?  Why  didn't  you  let 
me  know?" 

"I  wanted  to  surprise  you,"  she  laughed. 
"Annabel  Hitchcock's  aunt  died,  so  we 
could  n't  go  to  California.  I  had  nothing  else 
to  do,  so  I  came  home.     Was  n't  that  right?" 

[14] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"Exactly,  exactly.  But  it's  a  bad  time 'to 
come  to  Belmont." 

"I  don't  care,  I  'm  so  glad  to  be  home. 
How  do  I  get  out  to  Locust  Lawn?" 

"You  can't  well  wait  there  for  me  to  come 
in  for  you.  Take  a  carriage  and  tell' the  driver 
you  want  to  go  to  the  end  of  the  Townsend 
Park  car  line.  Wait  for  me  in  the  drug  store. 
I  '11  get  there  almost  as  soon  as  you  do." 

"Hurry,  Father,  because  I  'm  so  anxious  to 
see  you.  It 's  been  an  age  since  I  saw  you, 
and  you  know  I  don't  know  a  thing  about  Bel- 
mont. I  'm  just  dying  to  meet  everybody, 
and  then  1 11  ask  some  of  the  girls  out  to  visit 
me." 

"We  '11  talk  that  over  after  awhile,"  was 
his  noncommittal  response.  "Wait  for  me 
at  the  drug  store.     Good-by." 

The  carriage  drive  through  Belmont  and 
Townsend  Park,  a  suburb,  was  of  educational 
value.  It  gave  her  an  increasing  respect  for 
Belmont.  Although  there  was  no  remarkable 
residence  district,  there  were  occasional  homes 
which  denoted  refinement  as  well  as  comfort- 

[15] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

able  circumstances.  This  was  not  in  keeping 
with  what  David  Kerr's  daughter  had  been 
taught  about  her  father's  town.  The  number 
of  automobiles  also  surprised  her.  By  the 
time  she  reached  the  place  appointed  for  her 
meeting  with  her  father  there  was  not  so  much 
of  condescension  in  her  attitude  toward  Bel- 
mont. 

This  changing  viewpoint  did  not  mean  a 
diminution  of  enthusiasm.  More  than  any- 
thing else  it  spurred  her  curiosity.  She  real- 
ized that  the  real  Belmont  was  an  advance 
over  what  she  had  been  led  to  expect,  just  how 
much  only  a  dip  into  the  social  whirl  could  re- 
veal. The  pleasurable  part  of  it  all  was  that 
Gloria  was  still  queen  by  right  of  inheritance. 
If  the  kingdom  was  more  extensive  than  she 
had  thought,  the  court  life  would  also  be  more 
brilliant. 

Gloria  had  not  long  to  wait  for  her  father. 
An  old-fashioned  carriage  covered  with  mud 
and  drawn  by  fat  bay  horses  drew  up  before 
the  drug  store.  Out  of  the  vehicle  a  somewhat 
ponderous      individual      puUed      himself — a 

[16] 


i 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

smooth-shaven  man  who  appeared  to  be  some- 
thing over  fifty,  with  heavy  jaws  and  piercing 
eyes  which  looked  clear  through  you  from 
under  beetling  eyebrows.  With  a  cry  the 
girl  flung  herself  upon  him  and  smothered 
him  with  kisses. 

"You  old  dear!"  she  exclaimed.  "You 
have  n't  changed  a  bit.  I  'm  so  glad  to  be  at 
home  with  you.  Isn't  it  just  dandy  to  be 
back  in  Belmont!" 

The  man  smiled.  Even  if  he  had  not 
changed,  as  she  had  sworn,  he  recognized  that 
she  had  changed.  In  the  two  years  since  he 
had  seen  her,  out  of  the  chrysalis  had  come 
the  butterfly;  and  this  radiant  girl  was  his 
daughter.  For  one  brief  instant  he  unlocked 
the  neglected  chamber  of  his  heart  which  was 
the  prison  of  the  past,  and  thought  of  Gloria's 
mother.  Then  the  present  with  its  obligations 
and  its  stern  realities  recalled  him  to  the  life 
that  was  from  the  days  that  once  had  been. 

"Welcome  home,  daughter,"  he  said,  mak- 
ing a  peck  in  the  general  direction  of  her 
mouth  do  duty  for  an  answering  kiss.  With 
2  [17] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

David  Kerr  kissing  had  long  ago  become  an 
obsolete  custom.  Then,  too,  no  one  had  ever 
accused  him  of  being  unduly  demonstrative. 
He  had  not  built  up  his  power  in  that  way. 

Seeing  the  negro  driver  bowing  and  scrap- 
ing, Gloria  left  her  father  to  speak  to  him. 
She  might  have  forgotten  Locust  Lawn,  but 
she  had  not  forgotten  Locust  Lawn's  chief 
factotum.  Old  Tom,  who  had  been  in  Kerr's 
employ  for  a  generation,  had  been  her  con- 
stant companion  when  she  had  outgrown  the 
continuous  vigilance  of  her  nurse. 

"How  d'you  do,  Tom,"  she  said,  extending 
her  hand.  "I  don't  believe  you  remember  me. 
Now  do  you?" 

"Bless  yo'  heart.  Miss  Glory,"  grinned  the 
old  negro,  "I  'd  sho'ly  know  you  anywhares. 
An'  it  does  me  a  pow'ful  sight  o'  good  to  see 
you.  Why,  chile,  when  you  went  away  you 
wuz  jes'  a  little  gal.  An'  now  look  at  you; 
you  's  a  reg'lar  growed-up  woman.  Ah  reckins 
you  '11  want  to  git  mahried  soon.     Hey?" 

Gloria  laughed;  that  same  fresh,  infectious 
laugh  of  hers  which  had  warned  many  a  wary 

[18] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

suitor  that  he  had  not  found  the  combination 
to  her  heart  and  had  brought  him  to  that  plane 
of  friendship  on  which  he  was  always  welcome. 
As  well  try  to  describe  Patti's  singing,  in  the 
days  when  her  charm  was  greatest,  as  try  to 
describe  Gloria's  laugh.  There  be  those  per- 
sons so  presumptuous  that  on  hearing  it  would 
aver  she  had  never  loved.  Whether  David 
Kerr  was  one  of  those  his  countenance  did  not 
betray.  As  he  waited  for  her  answer  to  the 
question  put  her  by  the  old  negro,  a  privileged 
servitor,  his  face  was  as  impassive  as  ever  it 
was  on  the  night  of  an  election. 

"Why,  Tom,"  she  explained  when  she  had 
ceased  to  laugh  at  the  foolishness  of  the  ques- 
tion, *'I  love  everybody,  of  course,  but  nobody 
in  the  wide,  wide  world  like  that.  I  'm  never 
going  to  marry  any  one;  do  you  think  so?" 

"Miss  Glory,  you  neveh  do  know  what  de 
Lord  '11  pervide.  Look  at  me.  Ah  done  say 
dat,  too,  when  I  wuz  young  lak  you ;  but  Ah  's 
had  fo'  wives  already,  an*  mah  time  ain't 
come  to  die  yit." 

"All  right,  Tom.  I  don't  know  wliat  the 
[19] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

Lord  will  provide,  but  I  'm  not  going  out  of 
my  way  to  help  Providence." 

The  words  of  this  colloquy  were  neither 
more  nor  less  than  David  Kerr  had  anticipated. 
It  was  from  the  spirit  rather  than  from  the 
wording  of  her  reply  that  the  father  sought  to 
ascertain  the  answer.  It  had  been  his  one  hope 
that  somewhere  on  her  travels  she  would  meet 
a  man  worthy  the  love  of  a  woman  such  as  she, 
that  she  would  marry  him  and  never  return  to 
Belmont.  Almost  unconsciously,  with  that 
end  vaguely  in  view,  he  had  been  diminishing 
his  activities.  He  had  money  enough  for 
Gloria's  future,  already  she  had  her  own  in- 
come, and  his  age  made  even  power  irksome. 
He  would  move  away  from  Belmont  when 
Gloria  married,  and  when  she  came  to  visit  him 
it  would  be  to  some  charming  rural  spot  in 
the  East  she  loved  so  well.  Other  men  of  his 
type  had  retired,  why  not  he?  One  had  even 
raised  a  horse  which  had  won  the  greatest 
classic  of  the  English  turf.  But  for  him,  he 
had  mused,  there  would  be  no  such  pursuits 
to  bring  him  into  the  public  eye.     That  he 

[20] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

wished  to  avoid  for  Gloria's  sake.  And  now 
all  his  plans  seemed  to  be  coming  to  naught — 
Gloria  had  come  home,  free  of  heart  and  anx- 
ious to  mingle  in  Belmont  society. 

The  drive  to  Locust  Lawn  was  uneventful. 
Gloria  watched  for  landmarks  along  the  way, 
and  commented  on  the  changes  twelve  years 
had  made.  Locust  Lawn  seemed  closer  to 
town  than  in  the  old  days.  Most  of  her  re- 
marks about  places  they  passed  were  addressed 
to  Tom,  because  together,  when  she  was  a  child, 
they  had  been  over  the  road  many  times. 
David  Kerr,  never  much  of  a  conversationalist, 
was  content  to  listen,  hoping  some  chance 
speech  might  aid  in  clearing  up  the  situation. 
Everything  Gloria  said,  however,  seemed  only 
a  confirmation  of  her  determination  to  enter 
at  once  into  Belmont's  gayeties. 

"Dar  's  de  first  sight  o'  Locust  Lawn,  Miss 
Glory." 

They  had  just  reached  the  top  of  a  hill  and 
Tom  pointed  with  his  whip  to  a  house  on  the 
next  eminence.  Looking  up,  Gloria  saw,  not 
the  estate  of  her  imagination,  but  a  square  red 

[21] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

brick  house  looking  rather  desolate  through 
the  bare  branches  of  many  trees.  Locust 
Lawn  at  the  end  of  winter  was  no  enchanted 
fairy  bower;  but  she  was  far  too  clever  a  girl, 
and  far  too  good  at  heart,  to  betray  any  disap- 
pointment. To  her  the  place  was  home,  and 
she  was  anxious  to  recognize  it  as  such. 

The  interior  of  the  house  was  no  more  in- 
viting. As  soon  as  possible  Gloria  wandered 
from  room  to  room,  her  inspection  making  her 
give  silent  thanks  that  she  had  not  asked  any 
of  her  friends  to  join  her  in  her  descent  on 
Belmont.  The  wall  paper  with  big  yellow 
flowers,  the  carpets  with  big  red  flowers, 
the  rocking  chairs  with  the  crocheted  tidies, 
and  the  marble-topped  table  in  the  parlor 
with  the  inevitable  plush  album  upon  it,  were 
no  less  distressing  than  the  wax  flowers  under 
the  glass  case,  the  steel  engraving  of  the  Scotch 
Covenanters  worshiping  in  a  mountain  glen, 
and  the  tin  bathtub.  She  even  gave  thanks 
that  she  had  not  brought  a  maid. 

"Mistah  K."  said  a  negro  mammy,  putting 
her  head  in  the  door  of  the  living  room  after 

[22] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

Kerr  and  his  daughter  had  finished  going  over 
the  house,  "Tom  wants  to  know  ef  you  is  goin' 
to  town  dis  mawnin'." 

"No,  Lily,  I  ain't  going  to  town  today. 
Tell  Tom  to  send  Yellow  Sam  with  the  spring 
wagon  for  Gloria's  trunks." 

"Dey  's  ben  telephonin'  you  from  town. 
Dey  say  it 's  pow'ful  impo'tant  business.  Miss 
Glory,  she  done  willin'  to  stay  wif  me,  jes' 
lak  she  use'  to.     Ain't  you,  honey?" 

To  this  Gloria  gave  laughing  assent,  but 
her  father  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  not  going  to  town  today.  And  tell 
the  telephone  operator  not  to  connect  any  one 
with  Locust  Lawn  all  day.  I  ain't  goin'  to  be 
disturbed.     D'  you  understand?" 

Aunt  Lily,  who  probably  was  given  that 
name  by  some  ante-bellum  joker  because  of 
her  ebon  hue,  nodded  her  acknowledgment  of 
the  order  and  withdrew. 

The  reasons  David  Kerr  had  for  not  wish- 
ing to  get  into  communication  with  any  one  in 
Belmont  were  several,  but  the  most  potent  was 
his  desire  to  be  uninterrupted  while  engaged  in 

[23] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

studjnng  his  daughter  and  evolving  some  plan 
whereby  she  could  be  taken  from  Belmont  be- 
fore her  slightest  suspicion  had  been  aroused. 

One  episode  in  their  tour  of  the  house  had 
given  him  much  comfort.  Gloria  had  paused 
in  the  old-fashioned  parlor' and  gazed  long  at 
his  life-sized  portrait,  done  in  oils,  over  the 
marble  mantel.  Then  she  had  looked  about 
the  room,  and  not  finding  what  she  sought,  had 
asked, 

"Where  is  one  of  my  mother?" 

"There  is  none,"  he  confessed,  and  added 
quickly,  "but  I  'm  going  to  have  one  painted 
for  you.  That  was  given  me  recently  by  the 
First  Ward  club." 

"What 's  the  First  Ward  club?" 

"A  political  organization." 

"Politics!  Do  you  know  anything  about 
pohtics?" 

David  Kerr  almost  smiled. 

"I  don't  know  whether  the  President  is  a 
democrat  or  a  republican,"  she  added.  "What 
are  you?" 

"I  'm  a  democrat." 

[24] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"Then  I  'm  a  democrat,  too,"  she  said 
loyally.     "Politics  makes  my  head  ache." 

"Don't  bother  about  it." 

"Oh,  I  'm  not  going  to.  I  don't  want  to 
be  a  suffragette  and  march  in  a  parade  and  be 
put  in  jail  on  bread  and  water.  I  don't  even 
read  about  it." 

Her  absolute  ignorance  of  politics,  nothing 
remarkable  in  a  girl  of  her  years  and  training, 
was  no  small  grain  of  comfort  to  her  father. 

It  was  not  until  after  luncheon  that  Gloria 
disclosed  the  subject  nearest  her  heart.  Her 
father,  like  a  wise  general,  permitted  her  to 
open  the  engagement.  He  had  never  been  a 
man  to  exert  more  strength  than  was  neces- 
sary for  the  discomfiture  of  the  enemy.  He 
wanted  all  her  batteries  unmasked,  all  her 
forces  engaged,  before  he  brought  his  own 
side  into  action. 

For  some  time  they  sat  in  silence  in  the  liv- 
ing room,  gazing  into  the  open  wood  fire. 
More  than  once  Kerr  thought  his  daughter  was 
about  to  speak,  but  each  time  she  seemed  to 
think  better  of  it  or  else  lose  her  courage.    He 

[25] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

knew  that  something  weighed  on  her  mind,  for 
she  was  much  quieter  than  was  her  wont. 

"I  know  I  'm  going  to  like  Behnont  very 
much,"  she  ventured  at  last.  "And  I  want 
Belmont  to  like  me.  My  coming  home  is  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  other  girls  I  know.  At 
Annabel's  or  Jane  Leigh's  or  any  of  the  girls' 
homes  we  haven't  been  in  the  house  ten  min- 
utes before  the  telephone  begins  to  ring.  In 
half  an  hour  there  are  enough  engagements  to 
last  a  week.  In  Belmont  I  don't  know  any 
one  yet." 

This  was  not  said  in  any  tone  of  complaint. 
She  could  not  dream  of  such  a  thing,  because 
her  father's  position  was  such  that  her  lack  of 
friends  was  only  a  temporary  embarrassment. 
She  knew  that  well  enough.  As  for  David 
Kerr,  he  made  no  comment,  desirous  of  hear- 
ing her  at  greater  length. 

"If  I  had  known  that  I  was  coming  home  I 
would  have  brought  some  of  the  girls  with 
me."  She  did  not  allow  him  to  know  that  the 
house  had  not  come  up  to  her  expectations. 
"I  'm  glad  I  did  n't  because  I  don't  know  any 

[26] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

one  here  yet,  and  although  we  'd  all  be  received 
at  once  I  couldn't  make  it  as  pleasant  for 
them  as  I  can  after  I  have  had  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  things.  After  you  once  intro- 
duce me  I  think  I  can  begin  to  plan  for  the 
girls.  I  'm  under  obligations  to  every  single 
girl  I  know.  I  don't  mean  single — unmarried. 
But  I  might  as  well,  because  married  girls 
don't  go  visiting  around  the  country." 

"I  thought  you  entertained  in  the  East." 

"I  did,  but  girls  like  to  get  to  a  new  place. 
They  're  not  looking  for  anybody,  but  the 
wider  your  territory  the  more  certain  it  is  that 
lightning  will  strike  you." 

"You  've  had  a  pretty  wide  territory,"  was 
her  father's  dry  rejoinder. 

"But  I  always  ran  for  cover  when  I  saw  a 
storm  coming." 

"I  thought  you  'd  come  home  engaged  to  a 
duke  or  a  count  at  the  least.  Did  n't  you  see 
any  men  you  liked?" 

"I  liked  them  all.  Father,  but  I  have  n't  seen 
a  foreigner  I  'd  marry.  They  're  nice  enough 
to  talk  to  and  dance  with  and  to  bring  an  ice 

[27] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

at  a  ball,  but  no  more  than  that.  But  noth- 
ing worries  me ;  I  'm  going  to  stay  here  and 
keep  house  for  you." 

"It  ain't  much  of  a  house,  Gloria.  You  see, 
I  ain't  ever  had  any  women  folk  around  here, 
and  the  place  'bout  runs  itself,  'cept  what  the 
niggers  do.     You  won't  like  it,  I  'm  afraid." 

"I  '11  like  it  well  enough.  You  don't  know 
how  I  've  envied  other  girls  their  homes." 

"I  tell  you  what  you  do.  Go  on  to  Cah- 
fornia  now — I  '11  go  with  you,  if  you  say  so, 
and  stay  till  you  git  settled  with  some  of  your 
friends.  Then  I  '11  come  back  and  have  the 
house  fixed  up  so  's  when  you  come  again  it  '11 
be  just  what  you  want." 

Kerr  felt  that  if  he  could  get  her  away  he 
could  see  to  it  that  she  did  not  return,  even  at 
the  cost  of  his  leaving  Belmont  a  year  or  two 
sooner  than  he  had  planned.  To  this  sugges- 
tion Gloria  did  not  accede.  There  was  her 
curiosity  about  Belmont  and  her  desire,  some- 
thing one  who  felt  there  was  no  depth  to  her 
nature  could  not  understand,  for  a  home. 

"Whatl  go  away  and  miss  all  the  fun  of  fix- 

[28] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

ing  up  the  house!"  she  exclaimed.  "No  sir, 
Daddy.  I  'm  going  to  stay  right  here  and 
make  pies  in  the  morning,  have  teas  in  the  af- 
ternoons and  go  to  the  theaters  at  night.  And 
you  're  going  with  me."  Kerr  made  a  depre- 
cating gesture  but  she  quickly  overruled  him. 
"Don't  say  a  word.  You  're  going,  and 
tonight  's  the  night  we  start.  We  're  going 
to  the  theater  tonight." 

Then  Gloria  told  of  a  girl  she  had  seen  on 
the  train  who  had  come  to  Belmont  to  a  theater 
party.  She  explained  to  her  father  that  no 
occasion  would  give  her  a  better  opportunity 
to  see  the  Belmont  of  which  she  was  to  be  a 
part  than  that  offered  that  evening.  In  all 
likelihood  she  would  meet  a  number  of  persons 
between  the  acts.  From  her  point  of  view  she 
suggested  so  many  good  reasons  that  her  fa- 
ther was  afraid  to  interpose  any  objection  at 
the  time. 

The  arrival  of  Gloria's  trunks  put  an  end 
to  further  conversation,  as  she  went  to  super- 
intend their  unpacking.  Long  after  she  had 
gone,  David  Kerr  sat  gazing  into  the  fire. 

[29] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

Many  a  time  he  had  sat  in  that  room  and 
planned  each  move  of  a  pohtical  campaign 
from  its  inception  to  final  victory  and  had  seen 
those  plans  carried  out  to  the  letter.  But  here 
was  a  campaign,  if  he  should  undertake  it, 
which  would  he  different.  He  would  not  be 
fighting  on  his  own  ground  where  he  was  sure 
of  himself;  and  into  it  would  enter  those  un- 
known, unstable  factors — ^women. 

Kerr  was  proud  of  his  daughter.  He  recog- 
nized that  she  deserved  to  associate  with  the 
first  families.  If  she  was  to  remain  in  Bel- 
mont he  would  see  to  it  that  she  had  a  social 
position  which  would  be  above  cavil.  This 
much  decided,  there  came  the  question  of  how 
it  could  be  brought  to  pass.  The  fire  had 
burned  low  in  the  grate  before  he  had  con- 
sidered all  sides  of  the  question.  When  he  rose 
from  his  chair  and  went  to  the  telephone  he 
had  determined  upon  the  only  course  which 
would  have  as  its  result  the  launching  of 
Gloria  as  a  debutante  in  Belmont's  exclusive 
circles. 

Great  was  the  surprise  in  the  box  office  of  the 
[so] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

Belmont  Opera  House  when  there  came  from 
David  Kerr  a  request  for  a  box.  He  tele- 
phoned to  set  it  aside  for  him,,  that  he  did  not 
know  whether  or  not  he  would  use  it,  but  that 
he  would  send  a  check  for  the  amount  in  the 
morning.  The  much  flustered  treasurer  stam- 
mered that  he  would  be  most  happy  to  put  the 
box  at  Mr.  Kerr's  disposal  and  have  him  as 
a  guest  of  the  theater,  but  Mr.  Kerr  inquired 
the  price  of  the  box  and  closed  the  conversation 
by  repeating  that  he  would  send  a  check  for 
the  amount  in  the  morning. 

And  great  was  the  surprise  of  the  servants 
when  at  dinner  the  master  of  Locust  Lawn  ap- 
peared in  evening  clothes. 


[81] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  English  surpass  Americans  in  at 
least  one  respect;  they  have  learned  as 
a  nation  far  better  than  has  this  newer 
country  the  possibilities  of  a  dinner  party. 
Perhaps  it  is  their  higher  developed  social 
system,  more  likely  it  is  the  general  interest 
which  is  taken  in  governmental  questions, 
which  gives  the  dinner  table  an  important,  if 
unofficial,  place  in  political  life.  A  brilliant 
hostess,  with  heart  and  soul  wrapped  up  in  her 
husband's  advancement,  can  do  much  to  aid 
him  as  he  toils  up  the  ladder  of  political  prefer- 
ment by  gathering  at  her  board  the  leaders  of 
her  husband's  party  and  also  prominent  men 
of  the  opposition.  One  need  have  only  a  su- 
perficial knowledge  of  American  politics  and 
American  leaders  to  understand  why  this  is 
not  generally  possible  here.  But  there  be  some 
here,  taking  a  leaf  from  England's  book,  who 

[82] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

make  the  dinner  party  serve  purposes  not  ap- 
parent to  all  the  guests.  Judge  Amos  Gil- 
bert was  one  of  these. 

Fond,  ambitious  mothers  held  up  to  their 
sons  as  an  example  the  rise  of  Amos  Gilbert 
from  an  humble  home  in  a  frontier  village  to 
a  position  as  the  leading  corporation  lawyer  of 
Belmont.  He  represented  the  electric  light 
company,  the  street  railway  company,  the  wa- 
ter company,  and  the  stock-yards  company.  A 
person  with  an  analytical  turn  of  mind,  after 
studying  a  list  of  his  clients,  might  remark 
that  each  and  every  one,  individual,  partner- 
ship, or  corporation,  could  be  favored  by  some 
political  turn  or  damaged  by  some  political 
machination.  They  found  it  better  to  employ 
Judge  Gilbert  than  to  trust  to  luck  that  all 
would  go  well. 

All  day  Judge  Gilbert  had  been  trying  to 
get  in  touch  with  David  Kerr  by  telephone. 
Kendall,  who  represented  the  Chicago  packers, 
had  been  called  back  to  that  city  and  was  anx- 
ious to  see  Kerr  before  he  left  that  night.  Fail- 
ing in  this,   Gilbert  could  make  no  definite 

3  [33] 


THE  DAUGHTER- 

promise  as  to  Mr.  Kerr's  attitude  on  certain 
propositions  set  forth  by  the  astute  Chicago 
lawyer.  On  his  own  authority  he  did  say, 
however,  that  the  master  of  Locust  Lawn  was 
interested  in  watching  the  Behnont  News  de- 
velop its  new  policy  under  the  new  owner  and 
editor  who  had  managed  to  secure  control  of 
the  sheet  without  Kerr's  knowledge.  That 
Kendall  might  see  for  himself  and  meet  on 
friendly  ground  the  new  and  disturbing  fac- 
tor in  Belmont  politics,  Judge  Gilbert  invited 
Joe  Wright,  the  new  owner  of  the  paper,  to 
dinner.  It  was  just  by  accident,  apparently, 
that  Mr.  Kendall  had  been  picked  up  at 
almost  the  last  minute. 

The  only  others  present  were  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Hayes.  Sam  Hayes,  a  rising  young  physician 
and  surgeon,  was  coroner  of  Belmont  County, 
an  office  which  his  society  friends  joked  him 
about,  but  one  which  Hayes  recognized  and 
accepted  as  a  poHtical  stepping  stone.  Then, 
too,  it  gave  him  opportunities  to  repay  his  po- 
Htical friends.  David  Kerr  hked  to  have  such 
young  men  hold  office. 

[34] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

Dinner  over,  Gilbert  and  Kendall  withdrew 
to  the  library  for  a  final  conference  over  the 
stock-yards  situation.  Again  they  tried  to 
telephone  David  Kerr,  only  to  receive  the  in- 
formation that  he  was  not  at  home. 

"You  really  think  the  Belmont  News  having 
been  bought  by  this  outsider,"  queried  Ken- 
dall, "puts  a  different  aspect  on  the  present 
situation  ?" 

"Judge  for  yourself,"  answered  the  Belmont 
attorney.  "I  had  Mr.  Wright  to  dinner  to- 
night so  that  you  could  meet  him  without 
arousing  his  suspicions.  I  wanted  to  help  you 
that  much." 

What  Kendall  really  thought  he  evidenced 
by  his  indirect  reply. 

"I  don't  blame  Dave  Kerr  for  being  angry 
because  Wright  slipped  in  and  bought  the  pa- 
per." 

For  a  minute  or  more  the  two  men  smoked 
in  silence.  Kendall  was  wondering  what  he 
could  say  to  his  Chicago  principals  which 
would  make  them  understand  that  Belmont 
was  not  now  the  Belmont  of  the  old  days,  that 

[35] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

although  to  all  appearances  it  was  the  same  the 
practiced  eye  could  detect  the  vague  unrest 
which  pervaded  it. 

Judge  Gilbert  had  been  too  long  in  the  har- 
ness to  wince  at  a  corporation  request  for  the 
vacation  of  a  principal  thoroughfare  and  a 
public  park,  but  he  was  tired  of  the  long  fight 
for  grasping  masters  whose  one  demand  was 
always  for  more,  more,  more.  And  yet  he  had 
no  sympathy  with  such  men  as  Joe  Wright. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind,  however,  that  he 
would  not  aid  the  company  in  this  new  fran- 
chise grab.  He  was  partly  led  to  this  con- 
clusion, all  unconsciously,  because  he  knew 
David  Kerr  was  not  betraying  any  interest  in 
it. 

"The  river  eats  up  our  tracks  on  the  west," 
protested  Kendall.  "The  stock-yards  '11  never 
be  safe  while  we  depend  on  the  one  hne." 
Then  he  added  with  emphasis,  "We  must  come 
down  Maple  Avenue  on  the  east  and  use  Ben- 
ton Park  for  switching  yards." 

"It  can't  be  done." 

"It  can  be  done.  Dave  Kerr  can  do  any- 
[86] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

thing  he  pleases.  He  's  the  absolute  boss  of 
Belmont." 

This  was  said  with  such  a  tone  of  finality 
that  Judge  Gilbert  saw  no  need  of  replying. 
He  knew  that  Kerr  was  the  absolute  boss  of 
Belmont. 

There  flashed  through  the  minds  of  both 
men  the  thought  that  the  Belmont  News  might 
have  something  to  say.  It  could  n't  prevent  a 
franchise  being  passed,  of  course,  but  pub- 
licity at  times  was  unpleasant.  This  was  some- 
thing Kerr  did  not  court,  Gilbert  knew.  He 
was  the  easy  boss,  letting  every  one  have  a  share 
of  the  spoils,  and  thus  all  were  satisfied.  Few 
indeed  had  been  the  times  when  the  town  had 
attempted  to  revolt. 

"You  'd  have  the  whole  town  up  in  arms," 
remonstrated  Gilbert. 

"They  've  been  up  in  arms  before.  Once 
they  brought  ropes  to  hang  the  council,  but 
Kerr  put  through  the  waterworks  deal. 
You  're  the  attorney  for  the  street  railway 
company;  you  know  what  he  did  there.'* 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  Gilbert  admitted  has- 
[37] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

tily.  Then  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  "That 's  all 
past." 

He  ran  his  hand  through  his  hair,  gray  long 
before  the  frost  of  age  could  come  to  silver  it, 
and  was  thankful  that  such  episodes  were 
things  of  the  past.  He  was  weary  of  it  all. 
Kendall's  next  remark,  delivered  with  the  chill 
incisiveness  of  a  lawyer  cross-examining  a  bel- 
ligerent witness,  brought  him  once  more  to  the 
defense  of  the  man  who  had  made  his  success 
possible. 

"Is  Dave  Kerr  keeping  out  of  the  deal  only 
through  fear  of  young  Wright  and  the  Bel- 
mont Newsf 

"He  is  n't  afraid  of  anything.  Mr.  Kerr 
merely  says  that  it  does  n't  interest  him  at  the 
present  time.     As  for  me,  I  'm  out  of  it." 

"You  're  still  Kerr's  right  hand  adviser." 

"Pardon  me,  his  legal  adviser." 

Kendall  did  not  pause  to  acknowledge  the 
distinction,  but  went  on,  this  time  straight  to 
the  heart  of  the  matter. 

"I  made  what  the  stock-yards  people  con- 
[88] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

sider  a  good  offer.  If  that  is  n't  enough, 
what 's  his  price?" 

This  point-blank  question  irritated  Gilbert. 
He  much  preferred  to  call  a  spade  an  agricul- 
tural implement  even  when  talking  with  those 
who  stood  close  to  him  in  his  manipulations  for 
the  various  corporations  he  represented.  He 
therefore  ignored  the  question,  preferring  to 
tell  why  the  matter  could  not  be  taken  up  at 
present. 

"The  election  *s  coming  on  in  a  couple  of 
months,  and  your  franchise  would  be  made  an 
issue.  We  can't  afford  it  with  the  News  in  a 
position  to  boost  the  republican  party." 

"I  've  got  to  get  it  through  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. There  's  nothing  raw  in  this  franchise, 
is  there?" 

"That 's  the  Chicago  point  of  view,"  an- 
swered Kendall.  "Stripped  of  legal  verbiage, 
what  you  want  is  to  lay  railroad  tracks,  on 
which  will  run  cattle  trains,  down  a  pretty  resi- 
dence street  and  use  a  park  for  terminals,  all 
without  giving  property  owners  or  the  city 

[39] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

adequate  compensation  for  ruining  or  con- 
fiscating their  property.  I  call  that  pretty 
raw." 

"Well,  it 's  our  best  and  certainly  our  cheap- 
est way  if  Kerr  will  put  through  a  franchise  for 
us,"  Kendall  maintained  stubbornly.  "I  '11 
come  back  next  week,  and  take  the  matter  up 
again.  In  the  meantime  you  can  talk  it  over 
thoroughly  with  Kerr.  He  may  have  some- 
thing to  say  by  that  time." 

"It  hardly  seems  likely.  He  seldom  changes 
his  mind." 

"He  may  this  time.  I  've  got  to  get  away 
now  and  go  by  the  hotel  before  I  go  to  the 
train.  Let 's  go  back  to  the  drawing-room, 
where  I  can  have  a  few  more  words  with 
Wright.     We  may  be  able  to  win  him  over." 

"That 's  what  I  'm  going  to  try  to  do,"  re- 
plied Judge  Gilbert  as  they  rose  to  rejoin  Mrs. 
Gilbert  and  her  guests. 

The  attorneys  entered  the  drawing-room  to 
find  a  discussion  regarding  newspapers  just 
drawing  to  a  close  with  victory  still  uncertain 
on  which  standard  to  perch. 

[40] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"You  just  missed  hearing  Dr.  Hayes  pay 
his  respects  to  newspapers,  Judge  Gilbert," 
said  Joe  Wright  with  a  smile.  The  layman's 
opinions  always  interest  and  usually  amuse  a 
journalist. 

"What 's  the  matter?  Have  you  told  him 
you  won't  publish  the  box  scores  of  the  ball 
games  this  year?" 

"I  '11  do  that  for  him,  and  gladly." 

"Then  there  's  no  occasion  to  kick.  That 's 
the  only  thing  that  can  trouble  a  fat  man." 

"This  time  I  was  speaking  generally,"  ex- 
plained Hayes.  "I  don't  like  some  of  the 
ways  reporters  have." 

"That 's  only  a  small  part  of  the  business," 
laughed  Wright.  "If  you  complain  only 
about  that  I  shall  have  you  for  a  staunch  ad- 
herent." 

Mrs.  Hayes  saw  that  Kendall  was  at  a  loss 
to  understand  the  drift  of  the  conversation,  and 
accordingly  said,  "Dr.  Hayes  is  coroner,  Mr. 
Kendall,  and  the  Banner  man  calls  us  up  at 
most  unearthly  hours." 

The  Belmont  Banner  was  the  morning  pa- 

[41] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

per,  and  its  editor,  Deacon  Jerry  Withrow, 
was  always  at  the  beck  and  call  of  the  boss. 
Kerr  let  him  think  that  he  had  something  to 
do  with  directing  the  affairs  of  the  city.  This 
was  a  harmless  delusion,  since  his  pliant  atti- 
tude always  made  him  consider  a  suggestion 
let  fall  by  the  boss  as  a  scheme  which  he  himself 
had  hatched. 

"I  think  it  is  dreadful  for  nice  men  to  be 
mixed  up  in  politics,"  said  Mrs.  Gilbert. 

Perhaps  it  was  no  more  dreadful  than  was 
the  lack  of  knowledge  of  politics  displayed  by 
the  nice  women  of  Belmont.  This  would  have 
been  difficult  to  impress  upon  Mrs.  Gilbert. 
She  knew  well  enough  that  her  husband  was 
consulted  by  that  odious  David  Kerr,  but  that 
was  in  a  legal  way  and  Kerr  paid  well  for  the 
advice  he  received.  Even  the  tone  in  which 
she  spoke  showed  how  thankful  she  was  her 
husband  was  not  in  politics.  Mrs.  Hayes  was 
quick  to  say  what  she  thought  along  the  same 
line  by  adding: 

"And  Dr.  Hayes  doesn't  have  to  at  all, 

[42] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

you  know.  He  says  he  does  it  for  the  good 
of  the  party." 

The  coroner  looked  at  his  pretty  young  wife 
and  remarked  in  mock-disgust: 

"What  my  wife  does  n't  know  about  politics 
would  elect  Bryan  President." 

This  would  have  been  all  very  interesting 
to  Kendall  if  he  had  had  the  entire  evening 
to  spend  in  such  pleasant  company.  Time  was 
pressing,  however,  and  in  the  few  minutes  still 
at  his  disposal  he  wished  to  sound  Wright  at 
greater  length  about  the  Belmont  News, 

Kendall  looked  closely  at  the  young  man 
whom  he  had  already  set  down  as  an  opponent. 
Physically  Wright  seemed  no  shirker  of  a 
combat.  His  shoulders  were  broad  and  his 
body  well  developed.  Led  to  believe  from 
his  knowledge  of  the  reformer  type  that  he 
would  find  Joe  Wright  a  long-haired  theorist 
and  Utopian  dreamer,  the  lawyer  found  in- 
stead a  self-possessed,  well-balanced  young 
man.  The  newspaper  owner's  manner,  even 
in  repose,  was  judicial.     To  Kendall's  think- 

[43] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

ing  he  had  the  air  of  a  man  who  would  not  be 
swayed  by  prejudice  or  liking.  It  was  his 
part,  however,  as  a  special  pleader,  to  make 
Wright  think  himself  too  much  an  idealist — 
if  he  could — in  opposing  the  just  claims  of  the 
stock-yard  company. 

"I  suppose  you  found  the  News  somewhat 
run  down  when  you  took  hold  of  it,"  Kendall 
remarked  casually. 

"Yes,  the  name  was  about  all  I  bought." 

"I  thought  the  paper  had  a  pretty  good 
mechanical  plant,"  interjected  Gilbert. 

Instinctively  Wright  felt  the  concerted  ac- 
tion masked  under  the  innocent  question  and 
the  remark  by  Gilbert.  Just  what  Kendall 
had  to  gain  he  did  not  know,  but  since  he  rec- 
ognized him  as  a  representative  of  large  inter- 
ests he  thought  best  to  let  him  know  what  stand 
the  News  might  be  expected  to  take.  It  was 
just  as  well  that  Gilbert  should  have  it  clearly 
in  mind  also.  If  the  clients  of  these  men  were 
playing  the  game  fair  and  square  they  would 
welcome  his  kind  of  newspaper.  If  they 
weren't,  and  Wright  knew  there  had  been 

[44] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

lapses  from  grace  on  the  parts  of  some  of 
them,  he  hoped  they  would  recognize  in  the 
paper  the  power  which  would  first  seek  to  pre- 
vent, and,  failing  in  this,  then  try  to  cor- 
rect. Judge  Gilbert's  allusion  to  the  good 
mechanical  plant  he  seized  upon  for  a  text. 

"That 's  true,  the  News  has  a  good  mechan- 
ical plant."  He  paused  to  let  that  sink  in  be- 
fore he  continued.  "Somehow  or  other  when 
I  think  of  a  newspaper  I  never  think  of  that 
side  of  it.  I  have  in  mind  only  the  feeling  of 
confidence  with  which  a  newspaper  inspires  its 
readers." 

"What  do  you  think  the  ideal  newspaper  is 
like?"  asked  Judge  Gilbert.  He  wanted  to 
know  to  what  kind  of  star  this  young  man  had 
hitched  his  wagon. 

"The  ideal  newspaper  is  one  which  has  no 
ax  to  grind,  and  no  personal  animus  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  private  affairs  or  public  questions, 
but  only  a  constant  regard  for  the  truth  and 
the  lasting  welfare  of  the  state." 

Kendall  went  to  what  he  considered  the 
heart  of  the  matter. 

[45] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Aren't  you  leaving  out  of  consideration, 
Mr.  Wright,  that  everything — ^this  govern- 
ment, even — -is  but  a  compromise?" 

"No,  I  recognize  that,  and  I  believe  in  com- 
promise. Without  it  we  would  still  be  cave 
dwellers.  It  is  exactly  because  of  this  ever- 
present  compromise  that  an  honest  newspaper 
is  so  valuable.  It  must  see  to  it  that  this  com- 
promise is  open  and  above  board.  It  must  n't 
be  the  give-and-take  trade  of  low  politicians 
in  the  back  room  of  a  saloon  or  the  far  more 
dangerous  trades  of  men  higher  up  and  pow- 
erful interests;  not  that  kind  of  compromise, 
which  after  all  is  a  sale  of  something  one  does 
not  legally  own  to  one  who  cannot  or  will  not 
secure  it  honestly.  I  tell  you  that  the  major- 
ity must  rule  fairly  and  with  a  proper  defer- 
ence for  the  rights  of  the  minority,  that 's 
where  a  newspaper  can  be  of  service." 

Having  decided  to  deliver  a  broadside, 
Wright  had  gone  about  it  with  great  enthusi- 
asm. The  sight  of  Mrs.  Hayes  gazing  won- 
deringly  at  him,  for  she  did  not  understand 
what  he  meant,  caused  the  editor  to  break  off 

[46] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

with  a  laugh.  He  recognized  that  Judge  Gil- 
bert's drawing-room  was  not  the  proper  place 
for  a  lengthy  exposition  of  his  views. 

"I  'm  afraid  I  'm  preaching,"  he  apologized, 
"and  there  's  nothing  I  hate  more  than  that.** 

"Xot  at  all,"  protested  Kendall.  "Your 
views  interest  me  greatly,  Mr.  Wright. 
When  I  come  again  I  am  going  to  see  how  far 
along  you  are  on  the  road  to  the  ideal." 

With  this  Kendall  announced  that  he  must 
be  going,  and  made  his  adieux.  To  have  a 
few  last  words  about  Wright,  Judge  Gilbert 
accompanied  the  \'isiting  attorney  even  to  the 
front  gate.  His  very  last  assertion  was  that 
he  himself  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
proposed  franchise  grab  and  that  he  was  mor- 
ally certain  David  Kerr  was  of  the  same  frame 
of  mind. 


[47] 


CHAPTER  III 

AS  Judge  Gilbert  was  about  to  enter 
his  front  door,  having  accompanied 
Mr.  Kendall  as  far  as  the  gate,  he  saw 
a  carriage  stop  in  front  of  the  house.  The 
man  who  got  out  and  came  up  the  walk  he  rec- 
ognized instantly.  None  the  less  he  did  not 
walk  like  the  David  Kerr  of  yesterday;  he 
seemed  in  every  motion  as  he  came  into  the 
light  cast  by  the  porch  lamp  to  be  the  David 
Kerr  of  ten  years  hence.  Realizing  that  only 
something  unusual  could  bring  the  master  of 
Locust  Lawn  out  at  night,  and  to  his  house, 
too,  the  lawyer  went  down  the  porch  steps  to 
meet  his  visitor. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Kerr,"  was  Gilbert's 
greeting.     "This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure." 

"Evening,  Amos.  Can  I  see  you  alone?  I 
don't  want  to  be  interrupted." 

[48] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"We  can  go  into  the  library.  No  one  will 
disturb  us  there." 

To  this  Kerr  made  no  reply.  He  toiled 
heavily  up  the  steps  and  into  the  house.  Gil- 
bert's surprise  increased  on  finding,  when  his 
visitor  removed  his  overcoat,  that  he  had  on 
evening  clothes.  It  was  more  an  intuitive 
feeling  than  observation  which  made  Gilbert 
understand  how  uncomfortable  the  boss  found 
his  unaccustomed  raiment. 

As  Kerr  walked  through  the  hall  and  into 
the  library,  his  own  thoughts  did  not  weigh  so 
heavily  upon  him  as  to  prevent  him  from  sat- 
isfying his  curiosity  by  gazing  about  him.  It 
was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  ever 
set  foot  in  Gilbert's  house.  The  invitation 
had  been  extended  many  times,  but  Kerr  knew 
his  social  limitations  and  had  always  refused. 

The  judge  pushed  forward  a  big  leather 
chair  and  into  it  Kerr  dropped  without  a  word. 
His  hands  rested  listlessly  on  the  arms  of  his 
chair,  the  bosom  of  his  shirt  was  rumpled  and 
bulged  out  of  his  waistcoat,  his  breath  came 
hea\y  and  fast,  and  he  gazed  dully  at  the  fire 
4  [49] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

in  the  grate.  Gilbert  had  never  seen  him  in 
such  a  condition  before.  Until  now  he  had  al- 
ways been  the  man  of  iron,  accepting  his  many 
triumphs  and  his  few  minor  defeats  in  the 
same  imperturbable  manner. 

"I  tried  to  get  you  by  telephone  several 
times  today,"  Gilbert  began. 

"I  know  it,  but  I  wasn't  in  the  mood  for 
nothin'."  The  very  tone  in  which  he  spoke 
betrayed  that  fact. 

"I  promised  Kendall  I  'd  call  you  up  in  re- 
gard to  the  new  franchise  he  's  anxious  for  you 
to  support." 

"That  '11  keep." 

"I  told  him  that  personally  I  could  not  be 
interested." 

This  drew  no  answer  from  the  boss.  Gil- 
bert made  no  further  attempt  at  making  con- 
versation and  for  a  time  the  two  men  sat  in 
silence.  When  Kerr  launched  his  first  ques- 
tion it  seemed  apropos  of  nothing. 

"How  long  you  been  in  Belmont,  Amos?" 

Gilbert's  brain  went  through  a  series  of  rapid 
thought    transitions    in    an    effort    to    divine 

[50] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

whither  the  question  led.  He  was  accustomed 
to  Kerr's  interrogatory  methods,  but  every- 
thing was  so  out  of  the  ordinary  this  evening 
that  he  tried  his  best  to  fathom  the  boss's  pur- 
pose, before,  in  his  usual  indirect  fashion,  he 
disclosed  the  object  of  his  visit.  The  question 
was  one  easily  answered,  albeit  with  some 
surprise. 

"Why,  a  little  more  than  twenty  years." 

Kerr  continued  to  gaze  into  the  fire,  seem- 
ingly oblivious  to  his  surroundings.  Gilbert 
could  not  have  sworn  that  the  boss  had  heard 
him  reply.  Then  came  another  question,  still 
seemingly  apropos  of  nothing. 

"Remember  your  first  office — after  you  quit 
keeping  it  in  the  top  of  your  hat?" 

"Yes,  very  well.  I  paid  you  two  dollars  a 
week  for  desk  room  in  a  corner  of  your  real 
estate  office — in  that  same  old  office  you  still 
have  on  Fifth  Street." 

"That 's  what  I  charged  you — but  I  don't 
guess  you  've  got  a  receipt  for  every  week. 
Was  it  you  or  Bill  Stoner  in  them  days  used 
to  use  my  big  atlas  for  a  ironin'  board?" 

[51] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Both  of  us,  I  believe." 

Kerr  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair,  then  went 
on. 

"Many  's  the  time  I  Ve  opened  that  book 
to  show  a  man  the  plat  of  an  addition  and  out 
would  drop  your  other  handkerchief.  I  guess 
the  mirror  in  your  room  was  n't  big  enough  to 
hold  a  handkerchief  on  your  wash  day."  He 
looked  about  the  library,  absorbing  its  quiet 
elegance.  "Things  mighty  different  now, 
ain't  they?" 

"Then  I  was  struggling  to  get  a  start." 

It  seemed  to  be  a  monologue  Kerr  was  de- 
livering. His  questions  were  answered,  but 
he  made  no  sign  that  he  heard.  His  remarks 
were  delivered  at  random  and  he  never  took 
his  gaze  from  the  fire,  except  the  one  time  he 
had  looked  about  the  room  to  note  the  contrast 
of  the  present  with  the  time  when  Gilbert  had 
first  come  to  Belmont. 

"  'Bout  that  time  you  wanted  to  git  married 
to  a  mighty  nice  girl." 

"Yes,  that  was  about  the  time  I  was  elected 
prosecuting  attorney." 

[52] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"Exactly,"  then  after  a  pause,  "and  you 
got  married." 

Gilbert  could  not  understand  the  drift  of 
the  conversation,  but  he  recognized  that  Kerr 
was  reviewing  the  past  step  by  step. 

"Then  I  gave  up  my  desk  in  your  office,  and 
moved  to  the  courthouse." 

"But  you  still  came  to  see  me,  Amos." 

This  was  said  as  quietly  as  had  been  his 
previous  remarks.  Taken  by  itself  it  was  a 
harmless  utterance,  but  in  connection  with 
what  had  gone  before  it  was  of  great  signifi- 
cance. Yes,  Amos  Gilbert,  the  rising  young 
prosecuting  attorney,  had  gone  to  see  David 
Kerr  after  he  had  moved  his  ofiice  to  the  court- 
house. The  boss  let  that  remark  sink  in  well 
before  he  asked, 

"After  that  how  long  was  you  on  the 
bench?" 

"Six  years." 

"Is  that  sol  I  hadn't  an  idee  it  was  that 
long.     What  made  you  give  that  up?" 

"I  had  a  family  on  my  hands  and  needed 
more  money.    I  did  n't  run  again,  you  remem- 

[53] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

ber,  because  I  wanted  to  be  attorney  for  the 
new  street  railway  company." 

Kerr  seemed  to  be  revolving  something  in 
his  mind,  for  it  was  some  time  before  he  re- 
minded Gilbert  of  a  step  in  his  rise  which  he 
had  not  mentioned. 

"I  thought  you  was  lawyer  for  one  of  them 
crowds  that  was  fightin'  for  a  franchise." 

"Well,  we  got  the  franchise." 

That  was  what  Kerr  wanted  to  bring  out. 

"Exactly.     And  you  're  still  their  lawyer." 

"Yes." 

"And  for  the  water  company,"  mused  Kerr. 
"And  for  the  'lectric  light  company.  And  you 
still  come  to  see  me,  Amos." 

"Why,  yes,  Mr.  Kerr,  I  'm  not  unmindful 
of—" 

Kerr  seemed  to  throw  off  some  of  the  gloom 
in  which  he  had  appeared  to  be  wrapped  as  he 
interrupted  the  attorney. 

"This  time,  Amos,  I  've  come  to  see  you. 
It 's  the  first  time  I  've  ever  been  in  this  house." 

"Well— Mr.  Kerr— I—,"  stammered  Gil- 
bert. 

[54] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

The  boss  pulled  himself  together  in  his 
chair,  sat  up  straight  and  looked  at  Gilbert. 

"But  you've  got  a  telephone."  Then  he 
added  in  a  gentler  tone:  "That's  all  right, 
Amos,  I  've  always  understood."  It  seemed 
to  be  with  an  effort  that  he  continued,  "I  'm  go- 
ing to  tell  you  some  things  that  you  know,  and 
some  things  that  you  don't  know,  and  some 
you  've  guessed,  and  some  I  've  thought  no- 
body 'd  ever  have  to  know.  'Bout  the  time 
you  come  here  I  was  married,  and  my  wife 
died  on  giving  birth  to  a  girl." 

"Gloria." 

"Yes,  Gloria.  I  was  just  gittin'  into  pol- 
itics. Things  might  'ave  been  different  if  my 
wife  had  lived.  It  did  n't  seem  long  before 
there  I  was  with  a  big  girl  on  my  hands — me, 
David  Kerr."  The  old  feeling  of  power 
surged  through  him  as  he  added  with  spirit, 
"If  it  had  been  a  boy!" 

This  thought  held  him  silent  for  a  minute, 
and  when  he  took  up  the  thread  of  his  story 
again  it  was  the  old  weary  tone. 

"Well,  it  was  n't.     There  I  was  with  a  girl 

155] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

on  my  hands.  Her  mother  did  n't  have  any 
relatives.  Her  father  was  a  minister,  same  *s 
my  father  was.  I  did  n't  have  anybody, 
either,  I  could  send  her  to.  I  kept  her  as  long 
as  I  could,  but  by  that  time  my  house — even  in 
the  country — war  n't  a  fit  place  for  a  child — 
specially  a  girl.  So  I  sent  her  away  to  school 
and  she  ain't  been  back  since.  I  reckon  Bel- 
mont 's  forgot  about  her.  I  gave  her  plenty 
of  money,  but  she  never  knew  anything  of  my 
— transactions.  She  thinks  I  made  it  all  in 
real  estate." 

"Then  she  does  n't  know — " 
"That 's  the  hell  of  it— she  don't." 
Kerr  could  sit  still  no  longer.  He  pulled 
himself  out  of  his  chair  and  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  fire  and  directly  facing  Gilbert.  "All 
these  years  I  've  acted  a  lie.  I  've  made  Gloria 
believe  I  'm  the  leading  man  in  Belmont.  I 
am — but  not  in  the  way  she  thinks.  It 
was  n't  because  I  loved  her ;  I  can't  say  I  do, 
'cause  I  don't  know  her  well.  I  ain't  been 
East  to  see  her  for  a  couple  of  years.  It  was 
pride  made  me  tell  her  that ;  that 's  what  it  was, 

[56] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

pride.     I  wanted  my  girl  to  have  what  I  'd 
missed.     I  didn't  want  her  to  know." 

He  lapsed  into  silence,  which  he  finally  broke 
himself  with  the  explanatory  remark: 

"Gloria  thinks  I  'm  the  social  leader  of  Bel- 
mont ;  that  the  whole  town  hangs  breathless  on 
what  I  say  shall  be  the  fashion  at  pink  teas." 

"Hasn't  she  often  wanted  to  come  back?" 

Kerr  was  not  to  be  hurried.  He  began  to 
pace  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  fireplace. 
When  he  paused,  the  lawyer,  to  secure  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  story,  said: 

"Well?" 

"This  morning  she  came  home." 

Now  Judge  Gilbert  understood;  yet  he 
could  scarcely  believe  it  possible. 

"What!     Gloria  herel" 

"Yes,  here,"  echoed  Kerr.  "Come  home, 
that 's  what  she  calls  it.  She  's  been  visiting 
school  friends  since  she  came  back  from  Japan, 
and  had  just  started  to  California  when  the 
party  fell  through  when  they  'd  got  to  St. 
Louis.  So  she  jumped  on  the  train  and  came 
to  Belmont  unannounced — to  surprise  me." 

[57] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

So  here  was  Gloria  in  Belmont.  It  was 
more  than  embarrassing.  Gilbert  recognized 
that  it  was  tragic.  Kerr  never  mentioned  his 
daughter,  and  Belmont  had  almost  forgotten 
her  existence.  Much  that  the  boss  had  told 
the  lawyer  was  news  to  him.  Gloria  Kerr,  the 
little  girl,  had  been  allowed  to  slip  out  of  his 
mind  and  he  had  come  to  regard  the  political 
leader,  just  as  every  one  else  did,  as  a  thing 
apart,  as  a  power  almost  as  impersonal  as  the 
force  of  gravity  or  the  freezing  of  water.  The 
easy  boss  was  regarded  as  just  as  much  a  Bel- 
mont fixture  as  was  the  river  which  flowed  past 
the  town,  and  those  good  people  who  laid  aside 
the  rose-colored  spectacles  of  Belmont's  laissez 
faire  doctrine  felt  that  it  would  be  just  as  easy 
to  remove  one  as  the  other. 

The  lawyer  in  Gilbert  now  rose  to  the  sur- 
face and  he  began  to  question  Kerr  just  as  he 
would  a  client.  The  girl  was  here.  The  only 
thing  now  to  discuss  was  what  to  do  with  her. 

"She  can't  help  but  learn  the  truth  1"  Gilbert 
exclaimed  at  last. 

He  sank  back  in  his  chair,  overcome  by  the 

[58] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

weight  of  the  problem.  On  the  wall,  where 
he  could  see  it,  hung  the  picture  of  his  own 
daughter,  Julia,  now  away  at  school,  and  the 
bitterness  of  the  whole  thing  was  brought  home 
to  him  all  the  more  poignantly  because  he,  too, 
was  a  father. 

The  hopelessness  of  Gilbert's  tone  when  he 
declared  Gloria  would  learn  the  truth  if  she 
remained  roused  Kerr  to  his  old  self.  When 
he  had  entered  the  room  he  seemed  crushed 
beyond  recovery.  Now  he  suddenly  developed 
all  the  spirit,  all  the  calm  resourcefulness, 
which  he  had  ever  displayed  when  listening  to 
the  report  of  some  political  revolt  which  would 
call  forth  hitherto  latent  strength. 

"She  must  not  know,"  he  replied  with  all 
his  old  dominance.  "Listen  to  me,  Amos  Gil- 
bert,— ^that  girl  must  be  recognized.  I  know 
what  people  say  of  me,  and  I  've  abided  by  the 
verdict.  I  ain't  been  no  hypocrite.  I  've 
played  a  man's  game,  and  I  've  dealt  with  men. 
I  ain't  asked  nothin'  of  your  women  folk,  but 
now  I  do.  I  'm  bringing  Belmont  a  girl  any 
of  you  could  be  proud  of.     She  's  got  to  be 

[59] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

took  up  by  the  right  people — I  've  kept  her 
away  all  these  years,  she  don't  know  my  story, 
and  I  don't  intend  she  shall.  She  's  the  equal 
of  any  girl  in  Belmont  and,  by  God,  she  '11 
have  an  equal  chance." 

"What  can  I  do?"  asked  Gilbert. 

It  was  for  this  Kerr  had  waited.  It  was 
for  this  moment  that  he  had  called  the  past  to 
mind.  He  had  wanted  Gilbert  to  have  before 
him  the  many  obligations  under  which  he 
rested.  It  is  true  that  he  could  have  com- 
manded, but  he  was  too  much  the  easy  boss  to 
issue  orders  where  he  could  hold  forth  a  glitter- 
ing reward  as  the  price  of  valuable  services. 
To  the  ward  heeler  the  word  of  the  boss  is  a 
fetish  to  be  blindly  worshiped.  To  his  few 
leading  lieutenants  the  command  is  coated  with 
sugar  which  has  a  negotiable  value.  Gilbert 
having  asked  what  he  could  do  brought  Kerr 
at  once  to  the  arrangement  he  had  planned 
whereby  the  lawyer  would  profit  through  the 
introduction  of  Miss  Kerr  to  society. 

"I  've  made  bargains  all  my  life,  Amos, — 
to-night  I  make  one  with  you.     Prosecuting 

[60] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

attorney,  judge,  corporation  counsel,  with  all 
the  money  you  Ve  made — " 

At  this  Gilbert  made  a  disparaging  gesture 
which  caused  Kerr  to  add,  "in  fees — with  all 
the  money  you  Ve  made,  you  still  fall  short  of 
the  riches  that  '11  purchase  real  freedom.  I 
know  how  you  stand,  and  things  are  pretty 
much  in  the  balance. 

"Think  what  it  means  to  your  daughter, 
money."  As  he  spoke  he  pointed  to  the  girl's 
picture.  "It 's  leisure,  travel,  friends  abroad, 
an  assured  future.  I  can  give  them  to  you,  I, 
David  Kerr;  and  I  will — on  one  condition. 
Gloria  Kerr  must  have  the  place  she  thinks  is 
hers  in  Belmont." 

He  paused  to  let  the  lawyer  grasp  the  im- 
portance and  the  value  of  such  an  undertaking, 
and  then  disclosed  the  means  by  which  the 
fortune  was  to  be  secured.  If  a  man  should 
ever  pay  another  out  of  his  own  pocket  for  such 
a  service  he  would  be  a  philanthropist  and  not 
a  political  leader;  Kerr  was  certainly  not  the 
former,  and  his  life  training  had  never  caused 
him  to  separate  a  dollar  from  his  own  bank 

[61] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

account  when  he  could  extract  it  without  pain 
— to  him — from  some  one  else. 

"For  this  one  thing,"  he  explained,  "I  give 
freely  into  your  hands  any  franchise  you  may 
draw  for  the  stock-yards  belt  line  railway. 
Disguise  it  as  a  street  railway  line  to  run  down 
Maple  Avenue.  Make  what  bargain  you  like, 
five  hundred  thousand,  a  million  dollars,  it 's 
worth  it.  And  always  remember,  I  'm  back 
of  you." 

The  possibilities  of  the  scheme  overwhelmed 
Gilbert.  What  he  was  to  do  for  Kerr,  even 
the  fight  for  the  franchise,  did  not  enter  his 
mind.  He  was  busy  thinking  of  the  freedom 
he  could  purchase  in  so  short  a  time.  All  that 
he  had  ever  dreamed  of  could  be  brought  to 
pass.  Kerr,  who  knew  almost  to  a  dollar  the 
financial  standing  of  every  man  in  Belmont, 
was  well  aware  that  Gilbert  had  been  hard  hit 
in  several  stock  exchange  transactions,  so  badly 
in  the  last  one  that  he  had  called  upon  the  boss 
for  assistance.  Yet  he  had  just  told  Kendall 
that  he  would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
that  kind  of  work.     He  had  begun  to  develop 

[62] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

a  conscience — for  Julia's  sake,  perhaps,  for  his 
daughter's  future — and  here  came  Kerr  who 
wanted  him  to  go  down  once  more  into  the 
maelstrom  of  shady  politics  for  the  sake  of  his 
daughter. 

His  gratitude  for  what  Kerr  had  done  for 
him  was  great  enough  to  cause  him  to  do  anyr 
thing  for  Kerr's  daughter  he  could,  but  since 
the  boss  had  put  it  up  to  him  and  he  had  back 
of  him  all  the  boss's  power,  he  began  to  wonder 
why  he  should  not  accept  the  opportunity  to 
make  a  fortune  quickly.  It  had  been  held  out 
to  him  as  meaning  leisure,  travel,  friends,  and 
a  roseate  future  for  his  Julia.  He  longed  for 
those  things  for  himself,  no  less,  and  here  was 
the  chance  of  his  lifetime.  He  would  know 
how  to  make  those  Chicago  schemers  pay  well 
for  the  legal  advice  he  would  give  them. 

"It  won't  be  easy,"  said  Gilbert  finally. 

Kerr  had  won  his  first  victory.  The  lawyer 
had  surrendered. 

"That 's  why  I  came  to  you,"  was  the  boss's 
answer,  a  reply  charged  with  subtle  flattery. 
Gilbert  really  did  represent  in  his  autocracy 

[63] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

the  best  element ;  a  smug  set,  perhaps,  but  still 
the  best.  To  other  lieutenants  were  delegated 
hammer  and  tong  jobs;  Gilbert  was  the  instru- 
ment when  finesse  was  required. 

"There  's  a  certain  element,  Mr.  Kerr,  it  will 
be  hard  to  win  over — that  wholesale  clique. 
You  have  no  direct  dealing  with  the  men,  and 
— well — ^that  is — you  see,  they  don't  know  you 
and  they  might  not  be  interested  in  Gloria. 
They  're  a  clannish  lot." 

"I  Ve  fought  many  a  fight,  Amos,  but  never 
one  like  this.  If  it  develops  into  a  real  fight, 
I  still  hold  the  whip  hand."  He  raised  his 
right  arm  menacingly,  his  hand  clenched  to  a 
pugnacious  fist.  "Let  any  silly  girl  sneer  at 
my  daughter,  let  any  ninny  of  a  boy  be  un- 
complimentary, and  I  no  sooner  hear  of  it 
than  I  '11  put  the  screws  on — and  then  God 
help  'em.  They  don't  know  me!  Well,  they 
may  yet." 

"When  can  Mrs.  Gilbert  meet  Gloria?" 

"I  brought  her  with  me — she  's  in  the  car- 
riage." 

"She  came  with  you!" 

[64] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"Yes,  I  told  her  we  was  going  to  the  theater. 
Then  we  stopped  here  on  important  business." 

"Bring  her  in.     I  '11  call  Mrs.  Gilbert." 

While  Kerr  went  for  his  daughter,  the  law- 
yer called  his  wife  into  the  library  and  ex- 
plained the  situation  to  her  as  best  he  could  in 
so  brief  a  time.  He  only  told  of  Gloria's  be- 
lief in  her  father's  social  importance,  nothing 
of  how  he  had  promised  to  introduce  her.  Of 
course  his  wife  would  never  know  his  wages 
for  acting  as  Gloria's  sponsor. 

"What  a  remarkable  thing  to  do!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Gilbert  when  she  finally  realized  Gloria's 
position. 

"I  think  Kerr  was  crazy,  Julia,  ever  to  start 
it,  but  here  she  is  in  our  house  and  we  must  help 
carry  out  the  deception." 

"But  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Hayes?" 

"Who  made  Hayes  coroner?" 

"But  Mr.  Wright?  Will  he  meet  David 
Kerr?" 

"Mr.  Wright 's  our  guest  and  he  's  a  gentle- 
man, dear." 

Here    was    something    Gilbert    had    not 

6  [65] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

thought  of.  Perhaps  fate  was  playing  into 
his  hands.  He  hoped  so  anyway.  David 
Kerr  would  meet  on  neutral  ground  the  man 
who  had  already  caused  him  some  uneasiness. 
Since  the  boss  never  called  on  any  one,  and 
since  Wright  surely  would  not  go  to  see  him, 
this  was,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  to  be  an 
important  meeting. 


[66] 


CHAPTER  IV 

GLORIA  could  not  understand  why 
she  was  not  of  most  importance,  and 
was  not  a  little  piqued  at  the  long  wait 
in  the  cold  while  her  father  was  with  Judge 
Gilbert.  Her  only  consolation  for  being  late 
to  the  theater  was  that  every  one  would  be 
there  to  see  her  arrive.  She  knew  that  when 
she  entered  the  box  every  one  would  turn  to 
look  at  her.  A  harmless  little  thought  cer- 
tainly for  so  pretty  a  girl  as  she.  She  tried 
to  beguile  the  time  by  questioning  Tom,  but 
the  driver  had  suddenly  lost  his  tongue,  due 
to  Kerr's  order  issued  privately,  and  talked 
only  indifferently  on  indifferent  topics.  He 
was  grossly  ignorant  concerning  matters  which 
to  Miss  Kerr  seemed  of  vital  importance. 

At  last  came  her  father  with  the  announce- 
ment that  she  was  to  come  in  to  meet  Judge 
and  Mrs.  Gilbert.     The  girl  was  torn  with  con- 

[67] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

flicting  emotions,  being  anxious  to  get  to 
the  theater  and  at  the  same  time  desirous  of 
seeing  how  many  years  ahead  of  Locust  Lawn 
was  this  house  which  she  had  been  invited  to 
enter.  There  was  no  reason  why  she  could  not 
do  both,  since  meeting  Judge  and  Mrs.  Gil- 
bert could  mean  only  a  few  minutes'  more 
delay.  They  could  then  hurry  to  the  theater, 
and  if  she  was  pleased  with  these  new  acquaint- 
ances she  would  urge  them  to  join  her.  Loyal 
though  she  was,  she  would  welcome  any  one 
who  would  be  a  diversion.  Gloria  was  quick 
to  notice  a  faux  pas,  and  certain  of  her  father's 
slips  of  grammar  and  lapses  from  punctilious 
etiquette  had  made  her  wish  some  companion- 
ship less  blunt. 

At  the  door  she  was  met  by  Judge  Gilbert, 
who  welcomed  her  to  Belmont  with  great  cor- 
diality. Here  was  a  man  who  understood  the 
niceties  of  life.  Gloria's  heart  went  out  to 
him  almost  as  much  for  the  manner  of  his  wel- 
come as  for  its  genuine  warmth.  As  David 
Kerr  had  done  when  he  had  entered  the  house, 
the  daughter  gazed  about  her  as  she  passed 

[68] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

through  the  hall,  and  all  that  she  saw  was  given 
the  stamp  of  her  approval.  It  was  just  an- 
other step  in  her  growing  appreciation  of 
Belmont  as  it  really  was.  She  noted  also  the 
familiar  terms  on  which  Judge  Gilbert  and 
her  father  were.  She  had  never  doubted  her 
father,  yet  this  was  a  pleasing  affirmative  note 
in  her  theory  of  Belmont  life  which  had  not 
been  without  its  contradictions  that  day. 

"I  wonder  if  you  remember  Mrs.  Gilbert?" 
said  the  judge  as  he  ushered  Gloria  into  the 
hbrary.  At  her  entrance,  Mrs.  Gilbert,  a 
really  gracious  woman,  came  forward  to  greet 
her. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Gloria?"  she  said, 
"  it 's  a  pleasure  to  find  that  you  Ve  come  back 
to  Belmont." 

"I  'm  charmed  to  meet  you,  Mrs.  Gilbert. 
Indeed  it  is  nice  to  be  at  home  once  more  and 
I  'm  so  glad  to  have  you  say  so." 

The  next  bit  of  conversation  puzzled  Gloria 
not  a  little.  She  remarked  it  at  the  time,  and 
even  thought  of  it  once  after  she  had  returned 
to  Locust  Lawn  that  night. 

[693 


THE  DAUGHTER 

Judge  Gilbert  said  quietly  to  his  wife,  "Mr. 
Kerr,  dear." 

At  this  Mrs,  Gilbert  turned,  bowed  slightly 
and  merely  said,  "Good  evening,  Mr.  Kerr." 

"How  d  'ye  do,  ma'am,"  replied  Gloria's 
father,  to  his  daughter's  surprise  and  also 
somewhat  to  her  disgust.  Mrs.  Gilbert's 
greeting  had  been  extremely  brief,  but  her 
father's  had  been  extremely  provincial.  Not 
only  was  it  a  slipshod  manner  of  speaking,  but 
it  had  been  accompanied  by  a  bow  which 
Gloria  thought  uncouth.  Her  father  had 
written  once  or  twice  about  Mrs.  Gilbert,  and 
Gloria,  after  the  manner  of  society,  was  fain 
to  enlarge  upon  the  nimiber. 

"It 's  been  my  one  wish  to  meet  you,  Mrs. 
Gilbert,"  said  the  girl.  ,  "I  went  away  when  I 
was  so  young  that  I  can't  honestly  say  that  I 
remember  you,  but  in  his  letters  farther  spoke 
so  often  of  you  and  of  visiting  here.  Did  n't 
you.  Father?" 

Thus  appealed  to,  Kerr  was  forced  to  reply. 

"Yes — Oh,  yes,  Gloria,  but  never  mind  that 
now." 

[70] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

Judge  Gilbert  was  quick  to  come  to  the  res- 
cue, and  forestalled  further  embarrassing  re- 
marks by  saying : 

"I  suppose  it  will  be  a  novelty  for  you,  Miss 
Gloria — living  in  the  country." 

Gloria  laughed,  and  her  answer  contained 
due  notice  of  what  she  intended  to  have  in  the 
immediate  future. 

"Father  has  n't  a  motor  car — ^yet,  and  I 
don't  know  how  I  '11  hke  it." 

"You  '11  get  used  to  it,"  was  Mrs.  Gilbert's 
comment.  "Locust  Lawn  is  lovely  in  sum- 
mer." 

"But  it  isn't  summer  yet.  And  it  makes 
it  inconvenient  when  one  wants  to  go  out  in 
the  evening.  I  've  often  wondered  why  fa- 
ther did  n't  have  a  town  house.  He  goes  out 
so  much  and  must  be  in  Belmont  so  late  at 
night  that  to  my  mind  a  town  house  would  be 
a  necessity.  But  there  he  sticks  in  the  coun- 
try like  an  old  poke." 

Her  idea  of  her  father's  duty  to  himself  was 
so  strong  that  she  turned  to  him  to  tell  him 
just  what  she  thought  of  him.    During  her 

[71] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

speech    Kerr   had   been   exceedingly   uncom' 
fortable,  but  there  was  no  way  to  stop  her. 

"That 's  just  what  you  are,  Father,"  Gloria 
asserted  stoutly,  "for  sticking  in  the  country 
when  you  go  so  much  in  society — an  old 
poke." 

Again  Judge  Gilbert  came  to  the  rescue. 
"You  forget  he  does  n't  go  out  as  much  as 
when  he  was  younger." 

"Exactly.  I  don't  git  out  like  I  did  when 
I  was  younger,"  Kerr  repeated. 

"I  think  every  one  will  have  to  like  me  very 
much,"  Gloria  complained  with  a  whimsical 
air  of  doubt,  "to  come  'way  out  to  Locust 
Lawn  to  see  me."  She  knew  well  that  they 
would  come,  but  a  town  apartment,  something 
modern,  loomed  large  in  her  mind.  These  re- 
marks were  only  the  pioneer  work  preliminary 
to  a  siege. 

"I  'm  afraid  Belmont  will  seem  mean  com- 
pared to  the  places  you  have  lived,"  suggested 
Mrs.  Gilbert.  In  the  short  time  she  had  been 
with  Gloria  she  had  seen  enough  to  make  her 
certain  that  there  were  breakers  ahead. 

[72] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"Not  at  all,"  answered  the  girl.  Judge 
Gilbert  was  talking  earnestly  with  her  father, 
and  this  gave  her  a  chance  to  confess  privately 
to  Mrs.  Gilbert. 

"It  seems  good  to  me  because  it  is  home, 
and  I  can  do  as  I  please  without  com- 
ment. I  mean  to  live  my  life  to  the  full,  just 
as  do  other  girls  whom  I  visit.  Except  when 
I  've  been  with  them,  it 's  been  chaperon  and 
school,  school  and  chaperon  for  so  long  that 
I  'm  honestly  glad  to  get  into  a  house  where 
no  one  rushes  in  every  few  minutes  to  see  if 
I  'm  reading  a  French  novel  or  writing  love 
letters  to  the  chauffeur." 

Mrs.  Gilbert  laughed  heartily  at  the  mar- 
tyrdom Gloria  had  suffered,  and  promised  that 
such  would  not  be  her  lot  in  Belmont.  When 
Mr.  Kerr  joined  them  she  went  to  summon 
her  other  guests. 

"Judge  Gilbert  has  been  telling  me,  Glo- 
ria," Kerr  began,  "that  things  was  quiet  here 
just  at  this  season.     Now  California — " 

"Telling  you!"  repeated  Gloria.  Why  did 
her  father  need  to  have  any  one  tell  him  any- 

[73] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

thing  about  Belmont?  Then  wasn't  she  ex- 
cuse enough  for  all  the  gayety  possible? 

"Ain't  got  nothin'  against  Cahfornia,  have 
you?"  Kerr  asked,  ignoring  her  exclamation. 

"I  don't  know."  She  turned  away  from 
him,  conscience-stricken  at  her  tone  of  indeci- 
sion.    "I  wanted  to  come  home,  yet — " 

"Don't  you  hke  Locust  Lawn,  girl?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  answered  quickly.  "But — 
everything  is  so  different  from  what  I  imag- 
ined it  would  be.  Give  me  a  little  time  to 
think  about  the  California  trip." 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Gilbert  returned  with 
the  guests  who  for  some  httle  time  had  been 
entertaining  themselves  in  the  drawing-room. 

Mrs.  Hayes  and  her  husband  were  first  in- 
troduced to  Gloria.  While  they  exchanged  a 
few  pleasantries,  Wright,  in  charge  of  Judge 
Gilbert,  was  meeting  David  Kerr.  It  was  not 
until  Mrs.  Gilbert  called  him  to  her  to  present 
him  to  Miss  Kerr  that  the  editor  of  the  Bel- 
mont News  and  the  daughter  of  David  Kerr 
came  face  to  face. 

To  the  surprise  of  the  others  present  Gloria 
[74] 


or  DAVID  KERR 

gave  a  little  scream  of  delight  and  came  for- 
ward with  both  hands  outstretched  to  greet  the 
young  man.  He  no  less  gave  evidence  of  his 
pleasure  at  the  meeting.  His  face  lighted  up 
with  a  smile  and  the  way  he  grasped  both  her 
hands  betokened  his  happiness  at  seeing  her 
again.  If  the  others  could  not  share  their 
gratification,  they  could  at  least  share  their 
surprise. 

"Joe  Wright,  of  all  persons!"  exclaimed 
Gloria,  shaking  his  hands  heartily,  her  face 
radiant  with  smiles. 

"Miss  Kerr!  You  here!"  It  was  all  he 
could  say,  but  he  put  into  it  a  wealth  of  feel- 
ing which  made  it  impossible  to  mistake  his 
meaning.  He  forgot  David  Kerr,  he  forgot 
every  one  but  this  girl  whom  now  he  met  again 
after  so  long  a  time. 

"You  're  the  last  person  I  'd  expect  to  find 
in  Belmont." 

"But  you  're  not  the  last  person  I  'd  hope  to 
find  here,"  he  replied. 

Whereupon  they  both  laughed  and  shook 
hands  again. 

[75] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

Mrs.  Gilbert  was  the  first  of  the  others  to 
recover  the  power  of  speech.  "You  know 
each  other!" 

"Indeed  we  do,"  replied  Gloria.  "We  trav- 
eled abroad  for  a  time  in  the  same  party. 
How  do  you  happen  to  be  here?"  she  asked 
Wright.     "Tell  me  all  about  it." 

"There  is  n't  much  to  tell.  I  live  here 
now." 

"How  funny!" 

"I  'm  not  apologizing  for  it,"  he  laughed. 

"I  don't  mean  it  that  way.  Belmont  is,  my 
home,  too.     I  was  born  here." 

"Here!  In  Belmont!"  He  made  no  ef- 
fort to  conceal  his  surprise. 

"Yes,"  she  said  proudly;  "I  am  the  daugh- 
ter of  David  Kerr." 

Had  she  struck  him  a  blow  full  in  the  face 
she  could  not  more  have  staggered  him.  In 
the  joy  of  meeting  her,  Wright  had  forgotten 
everything  but  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her 
again  and  the  memories  her  presence  conjured 
up  of  what  he  called  their  mad  old,  glad  old 
Paris  days  when  they  had  been  so  much  to- 

[76] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

gether.  He  had  forgotten  the  sordid  present 
with  the  fight  to  make  friends  for  his  kind  of 
newspaper,  the  effort  to  meet  the  payroll,  and 
the  continuous  struggle  against  what  he  knew 
to  be  the  evil  influences  of  David  Kerr. 
David  Kerr,  her  father!  With  Gloria's  ex- 
planation, raised  by  her  pride  in  her  father 
almost  to  a  boast,  all  this  was  brought  back  to 
him.  He  still  smiled,  but  his  heart  went  dead 
within  him.  The  sun  which  had  shone  for 
him  so  gloriously  only  a  minute  ago  was  now 
hidden  behind  the  blackest  cloud  in  the  heav- 
ens. 

Selfish  as  they  wished  to  be,  for  a  time  they 
were  forced  to  join  in  the  general  conversation 
and  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  the  others  concern- 
ing their  previous  acquaintanceship. 

"When  did  you  and  Gloria  meet?"  Kerr 
asked  the  newspaper  man. 

"First  on  a  steamer  going  to  Europe." 

"And  then  accidentally  any  number  of 
times  on  the  continent,"  added  Gloria. 

"There  's  no  need  now  of  your  fearing  you 
will  be  lonesome,  Miss  Gloria,"  was  Mrs.  Gil- 

[77] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

bert's  comment.  "How  lucky  to  find  an  old 
friend." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  replied  Gloria,  with  such 
spirit  that  no  one  could  believe  she  was  merely 
saying  the  polite  thing.  "I  command  you  to 
come  to  see  me  at  once,  Mr.  Wright.  I  know 
hardly  a  soul  in  Belmont.  You  see  I  just 
came  home  this  morning." 

Thus  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  meet- 
ing the  boss  of  Belmont,  Wright  found  him- 
self invited  to  his  home.  The  circumstances 
that  had  brought  about  the  invitation  he  would 
have  considered  out  of  the  range  of  all  reason 
half  an  hour  before.  He  knew  the  game  too 
well  not  to  understand  how  the  easy  boss  works 
and  all  unconsciously  Gloria  was  seeking  to 
further  her  father's  plans. 

Through  friendship,  loyalty  and  a  sense  of 
obligation  which  one  is  not  permitted  to  for- 
get, the  political  leader  obtains  active  co-oper- 
ation where  to  deny  him  would  appear  base 
ingratitude.  To  keep  from  being  placed  in 
such  a  position  was  Wright's  one  aim.  Con- 
sequently,  to   Gloria's   invitation   he   merely 

[78] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

murmured  a  polite  assent,  inwardly  resolving 
to  find  sufficient  excuses  to  make  it  impossible 
for  him  to  be  a  visitor  at  Locust  Lawn.  Yet 
something  within  him  at  the  same  time  was 
telling  him  that  he  must  see  Gloria  often. 

As  they  were  now  leaving,  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Hayes  came  to  say  good  night  to  Gloria.  Gil- 
bert and  Kerr  found  this  the  favorable  mo- 
ment to  slip  out  of  the  library  unobserved. 

"I  've  told  Mrs.  Gilbert  how  sorry  we  are 
we  have  to  be  going,  because  I  so  wanted  to 
have  a  little  chat  with  you,"  began  Mrs. 
Hayes.  "I  '11  give  you  only  a  day  or  two  to 
unpack  before  I  come  to  call." 

"Please  don't  wait  for  that  to  happen," 
urged  Gloria.  "I  've  lived  in  trunks  so  long 
that  I  'd  feel  like  a  motor  without  gasoline  if 
I  should  take  all  my  things  out  and  hang  them 
on  hooks  like  civilized  people  do." 

"I  wonder  if  you  could  be  interested  in  some 
settlement  work  I  'm  doing,"  continued  Mrs. 
Hayes. 

"Don't  let  her  rope  you  into  that,  Miss 
Kerr,"  protested  the  doctor. 

[79] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Isn't  it  fashionable?"  inquired  Gloria  cau- 
tiously. 

"Not  fashionable  and  highly  insanitary," 
was  his  verdict.  "A  germ  is  no  respecter  of 
persons.  My  wife 's  liable  to  bring  home  any- 
thing from  measles  to  socialism." 

"But  think  of  the  poor,  unfortunate,  igno- 
rant people,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Gilbert,  who  with 
Mrs.  Hayes  was  interested  in  a  mission  estab- 
lished in  a  poor  quarter  of  the  town  by  the 
Presbyterian  church. 

"That 's  what  I  tell  him,"  said  Mrs.  Hayes. 

"It  is  n't  our  fault,  is  it?"  asked  Gloria.  To 
her,  settlement  work  was  a  sealed  book.  Slat- 
ternly women  with  troops  of  dirty,  sniveling 
brats  repelled  her.  Were  she  ever  to  develop 
any  philanthropy  along  these  lines,  she  was 
sure  that  the  work  would  be  carried  on  vicari- 
ously. 

"Of  course  it  is  n't  our  fault,"  added  Dr. 
Hayes  emphatically.  "I  still  say.  Rose," 
turning  to  his  wife,  "that  I  have  no  sympathy 
for  people  who  use  the  bath  tub  for  a  coal 
bin." 

[80] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"I  '11  tell  you  about  it  some  other  time,"  said 
Mrs.  Hayes  to  Gloria,  not  despairing  of  mak- 
ing her  a  worker. 

"I  'm  afraid  you  '11  find  me  hard  to  convert." 

''Then  I  '11  appeal  to  Mr.  Wright  to  help 
me." 

"I  have  no  influence  with  her,"  laughed 
Wright. 

"Not  since  you  ran  way  from  us  in  Paris," 
pouted  Gloria. 

Dr.  Hayes  and  his  wife  left  the  library  con- 
voyed by  Mrs.  Gilbert. 

For  the  first  time  that  evening  Gloria  and 
Wright  found  no  one  to  interrupt  their  con- 
versation. 

He  was  standing  in  front  of  the  grate,  his 
admiration  for  the  girl  shining  honestly  forth 
from  his  eyes  as  he  watched  her  say  the  last 
good-byes.  When  the  others  had  gone,  she 
turned  to  Wright  with  a  smile.  Walking 
across  the  room  to  him  she  held  out  her  hand, 
and  said  simply: 

"You  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  to  find  you 
here." 

«  [81] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Are  you?"  he  replied,  retaining  her  hand 
while  he  spoke.  "Since  that 's  the  case  I 
wouldn't  care  to  be  anywhere  else  in  the 
world." 

Then  they  sat  down  to  talk  of  other  days. 


[82] 


CHAPTER  V 

THERE  was  so  much  to  be  said  that 
Wright  and  the  girl  were  at  a  loss  to 
know  where  to  begin  now  that  they 
had  an  opportunity  to  talk  without  interrup- 
tion. With  Gloria  there  was  an  undercurrent 
of  unrest  caused  by  the  fact  that  she  feared  he 
had  carelessly  broken  the  promise  made  on  the 
Rhine  to  meet  her  again  in  Paris.  She  had 
waited  and  he  had  not  come. 

Wright  was  no  less  interested  in  what  they 
were  about  to  say.  In  the  first  place,  after  a 
long  absence,  he  was  again  with  the  girl  whom 
he  had  made  it  a  point  to  meet  at  various 
places  in  Europe.  To  add  confusion  to  their 
friendship,  which  he  had  highly  prized,  had 
just  come  the  astounding  revelation  that  she 
was  David  Kerr's  daughter.  How  could  he 
be  a  friend  of  the  daughter  and  an  enemy  of 
the  father?     Then,  too,  what  did  she  know  of 

[83] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

her  father's  methods,  and  of  his  own  attitude 
toward  the  boss  of  Beknont?  And  if  she 
knew,  what  did  she  think?  These  things 
made  conversation  rather  an  exhausting  men- 
tal exercise. 

"Well?"  Gloria  smiled,  inviting  him  to 
begin  the  story  of  all  that  had  happened  since 
they  had  shaken  hands  and  parted,  he  to  go 
to  London  and  she  back  to  Paris  where  she 
was  to  see  him  later  but  where  disappointment 
awaited  her. 

"Well,"  he  answered.  He  wanted  her  to 
begin,  and  thus  give  him  the  cue  to  her  line  of 
thought. 

"This  is  n't  much  like  Paris." 

"You  're  here." 

"Yes,"  she  laughed,  "and  you  're  here,  too. 
That 's  why  it  is  n't  like  Paris  when  I  saw  it 
last." 

"At  any  rate,  I  'm  glad  we  're  both  here." 
He  was  anxious  to  have  her  interpret  the 
present. 

"For  me  it  is  the  first  time  in  twelve  years." 

This  came  as  a  glad  surprise  to  Wright. 

[841 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

Then  she  cannot  know  much,  he  thought. 
Her  remark  emboldened  him  to  say: 

"Did  n't  you  tell  me  your  father  was  a  real 
estate  operator?" 

"Yes.     Did  n't  you  know  that  ?" 

*'I  had  almost  forgotten.  You  see,  I  am 
practically  a  stranger  here.  You  and  I  are 
alike  in  that  respect,  if  you  have  not  been  here 
for  a  dozen  years." 

"Oh,  I  would  n't  say  that,"  she  replied 
quickly.  "My  father  knows  everybody  and 
everybody  knows  father.  I  shall  know  every 
one  in  a  week." 

"Yes,  that 's  true,"  he  said  cautiously. 

"How  long  have  you  been  in  Belmont?" 
asked  Gloria,  seeking  to  satisfy  her  own  curi- 
osity now  that  she  had  told  him  something 
about  herself. 

"Only  a  month  or  so." 

"I  think  it 's  the  queerest  thing  in  the  world 
that  we  should  meet  here  of  all  places.  What 
are  you  doing  here?" 

And  then  Wright  lied.  He  did  not  have 
time  to  consider  what  might  be  the  ethics  of 

[85] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

the  case.  He  listened  to  his  heart,  which  may 
have  made  him  a  traitor  to  himself,  and  an- 
swered promptly: 

"I  've  been  doing  some  magazine  writing 
and  an  occasional  bit  of  newspaper  and  similar 
work." 

Had  he  been  asked  he  could  not  have  ex- 
plained why  he  had  not  replied  just  as 
promptly  that  he  was  the  owner  of  the  Bel- 
mont News,  What  the  real  reason  was  he 
could  not  even  explain  to  himself.  Earlier  in 
the  evening  he  had  talked  glibly  of  a  newspa- 
per and  its  duty,  and  here  an  hour  later  he  was 
denying  his  own  imder  the  fire  of  a  pair  of 
laughing  eyes. 

Gloria,  whose  ideas  of  business  were  as 
vague  as  her  notions  of  politics  or  esoteric 
Buddhism,  accepted  his  explanation  as  ade- 
quate; especially  since  she  recalled  that  when 
in  Europe  he  had  been  writing  some  maga- 
zine articles  about  the  tariff.  Since  she  never 
thought  about  the  matter  at  all  she  never 
thought  it  strange  that  Belmont  should  be  the 
place  for  such  labors. 

[86] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"Have  you  ever  been  to  Locust  Lawn?"  was 
her  next  question. 

"I  have  that  pleasure  in  store  for  me." 

This  pleased  her.  Even  before  he  came 
there  were  many  little  things  she  could  do  to 
make  the  house  appear  to  better  advantage. 
Although  he  had  not  yet  made  explanation  of 
his  failure  to  come  to  Paris,  she  found  herself 
anxious  to  have  him  once  more  on  the  old  foot- 
ing of  intimate  friendship. 

"Are  you  the  same  as  in  the  mad  old,  glad 
old  Paris  days?"  he  asked. 

She  parried  the  question  with  another. 

"Are  you?" 

"In  some  respects — only  more  so." 

"That 's  a  riddle.  I  hate  riddles."  As  he 
made  no  reply  to  this,  she  went  on  after  the 
pause  of  which  he  had  not  taken  advantage. 
"I  hope  we  meet  accidentally  as  often  as  you 
met  our  party  abroad." 

"Was  it  accident?"  he  made  bold  to  ask. 

"Wasn't  it?  You  pretended  it  was." 
Then  the  mischievous  little  sprite  that  ruled 
her  tongue  forced  her  to  say,  "I  don't  blame 

[87] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

you ;  I  think  Annabel  Hitchcock  is  a  beautiful 
girl.  We  all  know  you  were  crazy  about 
her." 

"Was  I?"    Rising  inflection. 

"Weren't  you?"     Also  rising  inflection. 

"I  '11  admit  I  followed  your  party,"  he  con- 
ceded. 

"Now  we  're  getting  at  the  truth  of  the  mat- 
ter," she  replied  triumphantly.  She  felt  she 
was  teasing  him,  and  she  enjoyed  it.  "But 
why  did  n't  you  come  on  to  Paris  as  you 
promised  us?  I  'd  like  to  know  why  we  sud- 
denly lost  you.  Was  it  another  girl  even  pret- 
tier than  Annabel?" 

He  did  not  join  her  when  she  laughed  at 
the  picture  she  had  painted.  All  the  light 
joyousness,  the  first  which  had  been  his  since 
he  had  come  to  Belmont,  died  out  of  his  face 
as  he  answered: 

"After  the  Rhine  I  had  hoped  to  meet  you 
in  Paris  again.  I  looked  forward  to  it  as  the 
beginning  of  another  happy  time.  And  then, 
in  London,  I  received  a  cable — ^my  mother  was 
dying." 

[88] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"No,"  protested  the  girl,  her  eyes  wide 
with  pity. 

"I  had  just  time  to  catch  the  express  for 
Liverpool  that  would  put  me  aboard  a  liner 
an  hour  before  she  sailed.  Miss  Kerr,  I  know 
I  thought  of  Paris,  but  things  all  seemed 
blurred  to  me,  and  so  the  message  I  had 
planned  to  you — not  to  Miss  Hitchcock — was 
never  sent." 

"My  poor  friend." 

"I  reached  America  too  late.'* 

"I  'm  so  sorry,"  she  sighed. 

He  had  told  the  whole  story.  There  was 
nothing  more  to  say. 

Both  sat  gazing  into  the  open  fire,  busy  with 
the  thoughts  of  life  and  death.  At  last 
Gloria  said  quietly,  with  no  more  movement 
than  if  her  thoughts  had  of  themselves  be- 
come vocal: 

"Tell  me  of  your  mother.  I  never  knew 
my  mother,  and  so  I  envy  you.  You  loved 
her?" 

"I  loved  her,"  he  began.  Of  his  own  af- 
fairs he  seldom  spoke,  yet  here  was  one  who 

[89] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

by  her  very  presence  made  him  glad  to  tell 
his  story,  and  glad  that  it  was  a  story  he  could 
tell  with  pride.  "Son  never  loved  mother 
more.  And  never  did  a  son  owe  a  mother 
more  than  I  owed  mine.  I  never  knew  my 
father.  He  was  a  good  man,  but  not  provi- 
dent. When  he  died,  mother  found  she  had 
to  support  herself  and  me,  an  only  child.  O 
Miss  Kerr,  if  you  knew  the  bitterness  of  that 
struggle  as  I  know  it  your  heart  would  ache, 
too,  at  thought  of  it." 

He  paused,  but  something  clutched  at 
Gloria's  throat.     She  could  not  speak. 

"If  mother  could  have  a  fault,  it  was  her 
pride  in  me.  I  suppose  when  all  the  things 
she  had  planned  for  herself  came  to  naught 
at  my  father's  death  she  centered  everything 
on  me.  It  was  n't  right,  of  course,  because 
I  was  n't  worth  it,  but  I  tried,  always  tried  to 
be  worthy  of  that  pride.  And  when  she  came 
to  die — she  wrote — " 

He  could  n't  go  on,  and  Gloria,  respecting 
his  grief,  was  silent,  too. 

"I  'm  so  glad  she  lived  to  see  it  all  come 
[90] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

true,"  Gloria  said  finally  in  a  low  tone.  "It 
makes  me  think  of  what  sacrifices  my  father 
has  made  for  me.  Just  because  he  loved  me 
and  wanted  me  to  have  everything,  he  has 
given  up  what  joy  I  might  have  been  to  him. 
Your  story  has  taught  me  what  I  owe  to  him." 

At  this  a  sudden  pain  shot  through  the  man's 
heart.  It  made  him  pledge  himself  before 
Heaven  to  protect  her  from  the  truth. 

"My  mother  died  when  I  was  a  baby,  just 
as  your  father  did,"  she  explained  wistfully. 
"And,  as  I  told  you,  I  envy  you  your  mother. 
I  wish  you  had  written  me.  I  could  have 
at  least  sent  my  sympathy." 

Now  Gloria  understood.  All  that  year  her 
thoughts  had  presented  him  other  than  in  the 
true  light. 

"I  wrote  to  you,"  he  said  gravely,  "as  soon 
as  I  wrote  to  any  one.  I  did  n't  know  your 
address,  and  ventured  letters  at  Brown,  Ship- 
ley's in  London,  and  the  American  Express 
Company  in  Paris.  I  had  heard  you  speak 
of  both  places,  I  thought.  Both  letters  came 
back." 

[91] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Give  them  to  me.  I  want  to  keep  them. 
We  left  Paris  before  you  wrote,  and  hurried 
to  Japan.  Our  mail  was  sent  in  care  of 
Cook's.     What  did  you  do — afterward?" 

"I  took  a  long  rest.  There  was  not  a 
relative  to  share  my  sorrow  with  me.  Now 
that  I  've  come  down  out  of  the  mountains 
and  taken  stock  of  life  I  find  I  have  n't  a  soul 
in  the  world — " 

"Don't  say  that,  Joe."  She  felt  irresist- 
ably  drawn  to  him  and  put  forth  her  hand  and 
laid  it  on  his  sympathetically.  He  turned  his 
own  and  let  hers  nestle  within  it. 

"You  're  still  the  same  Gloria." 

"A  year  is  n't  so  long  a  time." 

And  so  they  sat,  with  never  a  word  to  say, 
just  that  hand  clasp  of  silent  sympathy  as  they 
gazed  into  the  fire. 


[92] 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN  the  drawing-room,  Kerr  and  Gilbert 
were  just  beginning  a  conversation  which 
had  for  its  theme  the  new  turn  affairs  had 
taken,  when  Dr.  Hayes  passed  through  the 
hall  on  his  way  out  with  his  wife.  Sam  Hayes 
was  a  member  of  the  ring's  inner  shrine,  and 
when  the  opportunity  arose  for  what  was 
termed  a  quick  clean-up  he  was  always  a  mem- 
ber of  the  syndicate.  Therefore,  the  die  hav- 
ing been  cast,  the  judge  called  him  in  and 
announced  the  determination  to  push  the  fran- 
chise, a  deal  with  which  the  coroner  was  al- 
ready familiar.  Far  more  than  for  any  other 
reason  Kerr  was  always  willing  to  include  him 
because  his  Belmont  connections  were  so  strong 
that  he  really  lent  an  air  of  respectability  to 
any  undertaking. 

"We  are  going  to  put  a  line  to  the  stock- 
[93] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

yards  down  Maple  Avenue,  Sam,"  began  the 
attorney. 

"So  it's  settled,  is  it?" 

"Yes.  You  remember  that  vacant  tract 
beyond  Benton  Park?  The  one  that  the  Bel- 
den  Brothers  are  thinking  of  cutting  up  for 
a  residence  addition?  Well,  you  can't  build 
a  house  in  a  mile  of  it  when  the  road  's  through 
there,  but  it  '11  be  worth  a  great  deal  more  for 
factory  sites." 

"You  '11  have  railroad  connections,  see?"  ex- 
plained Kerr. 

"What's  doing?"  asked  Sam,  always  keen 
for  a  dollar. 

"Get  an  option  on  it,"  continued  Gilbert, 
"and  we  '11  cash  in  big." 

"How  long  an  option?" 

The  attorney  looked  at  Kerr. 

"Sixty  days,"  said  the  latter. 

"In  that  time  we  can  ram  the  franchise 
through  the  council,  and  when  that 's  done  any 
bank  '11  lend  us  the  money  to  take  over  the 
property." 

Hayes  went  out  to  rejoin  his  wife,  after 
[94] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

promising  to  take  the  matter  up  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

Gilbert  was  just  on  the  point  of  beginning 
a  discussion  of  Gloria's  future  when  a  reporter 
from  the  Banner  was  announced. 

"I  '11  come  out  to  see  him,"  said  the  lawyer, 
rising. 

"No,"  objected  Kerr,  "have  him  in.  I  want 
to  see  him,  too." 

So  Mr.  James  Winthrow,  the  young  po- 
litical reporter  for  the  Belmont  Banner,  was 
admitted. 

Winthrow,  like  the  usual  run  of  star  report- 
ers in  a  town  the  size  of  Belmont,  was  not 
only  a  shrewd  young  American,  but  he  was 
also  well  aware  of  his  great  shrewdness.  He 
had  made  as  many  political  prognostications 
as  any  young  man  in  the  country,  and  they 
were  quite  as  misleading  in  the  main  as  were 
any  of  the  others.  Being  on  the  machine  pa- 
per and  a  loyal  reporter,  it  followed  as  of 
course  that  he  was  a  loyal  machine  man.  Old 
Jerry  Winthrow,  the  editor,  was  a  distant 
relative,  but  friendly  enough  and  interested 

[95] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

enough  in  the  youth  to  explain  to  him  some 
of  the  turnings  of  the  political  wheels. 

When  Winthrow  saw  Kerr  closeted  with  his 
legal  adviser  he  could  not  suppress  a  whistle 
of  surprise. 

"Evening,  Judge.  Good  evening,  Mr. 
Kerr." 

"How  are  you,  Jim?"  said  Gilbert.  The 
boss  merely  nodded  an  acknowledgment  of  the 
greeting.     "What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Some  stock-yard  terminal  rumors  in  the 
air.  Judge;  just  rumors,  and  I  can't  find  out 
a  thing." 

"I  have  n't  heard  a  thing  about  it,"  the  law- 
yer assured  him.  Then  to  Kerr,  "Have 
you?" 

"Not  a  word,"  answered  the  boss. 

"Where  did  you  get  it?"  queried  Gilbert. 

"Floating  'round  town.  I  met  Mr.  Ken- 
dall just  now  going  to  the  station,  but  he 
wouldn't  talk.  I  know  that  the  surveyors 
have  been  out.  When  Mr.  Kendall  said  he  'd 
been  here  to  dinner,  Bilby,  he  's  our  city  editor, 
told  me  to  see  you." 

196] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

Gilbert  turned  to  Kerr.  The  leader  was  a 
man  of  few  words.  He  disposed  of  the  mat- 
ter under  discussion  with  one  sentence. 

"Tell  Bilby,  Dave  Kerr  said  not  to  print 
a  line;  he  '11  understand." 

That  was  all.  It  was  an  order,  and  the 
reporter  accepted  it  as  such.  Things  in  Bel- 
mont were  so  well  regulated  that  there  was 
no  danger  from  any  source  which  would  cause 
Kerr  to  think  twice  before  sending  his  order 
to  the  city  editor  of  the  Banner  by  the  reporter 
of  that  paper. 

As  Winthrow  rose  to  depart,  Kerr  asked, 
"You  have  anything  to  do  with  the  society 
columns?" 

"Occasionally  stumble  on  a  sto^}^" 

"To-morrow  put  in  that  Miss  Gloria  Kerr 
has  returned  from  a  trip  around  the  world." 

Winthrow  put  it  down,  and  then  asked  with 
pencil  poised,  "Is  she  at  Locust  Lawn?" 

"Yes,"  said  Kerr. 

"Don't  write  the  item  until  I  telephone  you 
later  in  the  evening,"  interrupted  Gilbert.  He 
had  been  plotting  and  planning  along  social 
7  [97] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

lines  ever  since  Kerr  had  told  him  of  Gloria's 
return.  Several  things  he  had  already 
thought  of  flashed  through  his  mind.  The  im- 
possibility of  Locust  Lawn  as  a  social  center 
was  one  of  these,  and  Gilbert  had  something  to 
suggest  before  having  the  Banner  write  the 
story  which  would  herald  her  return.  "You 
can  add  this,  though.  Say  that  Judge  and 
Mrs.  Gilbert  will  issue  invitations  next  week 
for  a  dance  to  introduce  Miss  Kerr." 

No  sooner  had  the  reporter  gone  than  Kerr 
turned  to  Gilbert  and  said  with  what  was  for 
him  unaccustomed  warmth: 

"That 's  mighty  good  of  you,  Amos." 

"Not  at  all."  Then  the  lawyer  went  on  in 
an  injured  tone,  "I  'm  only  sorry  that  you  put 
the  franchise  up  to  me  as  a  trade.  I  *m  not 
doing  it  for  that." 

"I  knew  you  'd  do  it  for  the  girFs  sake,  but 
I  want  you  to  get  what  you  can  out  of  it,  Amos. 
I  owe  you  that  much." 

Gilbert  was  glad  that  his  wife  entered  at 
this  minute,  for  a  discussion  of  Gloria's  social 
future  probably  would  not  bring  out  all  sides 

[98] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

to  the  question  without  a  woman  being  a  party 
to  the  conversation. 

"I  just  have  to  talk  to  some  one,"  Mrs.  Gil- 
bert confessed  immediately,  "and  I  did  n't  have 
the  heart  to  go  into  the  library.  I  peeped  in 
just  now  and  they  were  sitting  in  front  of 
the  fire  laughing  and  talking  and  appearing 
to  be  having  the  best  time  in  the  world.  I 
don't  know  why,  but  it  made  me  think  of  the 
times  when  you  used  to  come  to  see  me,  Amos." 

Husband  and  wife  smiled  at  each  other,  and 
he  said : 

"You  were  a  beautiful  girl,  Julia." 

"I  '11  tell  you  what,"  Mrs.  Gilbert  went  on, 
conscious  of  the  compliment  but  not  desirous 
of  herself  making  a  comparison.  "Gloria  is 
a  beautiful  girl,  and  what  is  more,  I  can  see 
that  she  has  a  beautiful  character.  I  'm  so 
sorry  she  has  been  away  so  long." 

"What  could  I  do,  ma'am?"  asked  Kerr. 
"I  couldn't  take  care  of  her  at  Locust 
Lawn." 

Locust  Lawn  had  been  in  Gilbert's  mind 
all  the  time,  and  he  had  waited  only  to  sound 

[99] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

his  wife  before  speaking.  Her  enthusiasm 
was  such,  as  evidenced  in  what  she  had  just 
said,  that  he  thought  now  was  the  proper 
time  to  broach  the  subject. 

"There  's  only  one  thing  to  do,  Mr.  Kerr,'* 
he  said.  "Gloria  must  come  in  and  stay  with 
us.  Locust  Lawn  is  all  right  as  a  home  for 
you,  but  as  it  stands  it  is  no  place  for  a  young 
lady  in  society;  especially,  since  you  want  me 
to  be  plain  spoken,  no  place  for  a  young  lady 
who  has  had  such  advantages  as  your  daugh- 
ter." 

"Exactly,  exactly,"  assented  Kerr.  He 
had  seen  that,  and  it  had  been  one  of  the 
thorns  in  his  flesh  all  day. 

Mrs.  Gilbert  was  quick  to  see  that  it  was 
the  only  thing  to  be  done.  She  had  become 
as  much  interested  in  Gloria  as  had  her  hus- 
band, and  now  she  added  her  own  invitation 
to  his. 

"The  Judge  has  expressed  my  own  ideas 
exactly,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Kerr,  you  must  let 
her  come  to  us.  We  have  fallen  in  love  with 
her  already." 

[100] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"Have  you,  ma'am?"  Kerr  asked.  "Then 
I  'm  awfully  glad." 

"Make  the  invitation  for  a  month,"  Gilbert 
directed,  "and  then  we  can  ask  her  to  stay  on." 

"I  '11  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  his  wife 
airily,  as  she  started  on  what  was  to  her  a  pleas- 
ant errand;  "I  '11  ask  her  for  the  rest  of  her 
natural  life,  and  if  she  wants  to  stay  that  long 
she  's  welcome." 


[101] 


CHAPTER  VII 

GLORIA  plunged  into  the  work  of  mak- 
ing over  Locust  Lawn  according  to 
her  own  ideas  with  her  usual  enthu- 
siasm. Accompanied  by  Mrs.  Gilbert,  she 
haunted  the  architect's  office,  carrying  with  her 
magazines  containing  pictures  and  descriptions 
of  beautiful  homes.  When  the  plans  for  the 
alterations  were  finally  approved,  David  Kerr 
learned  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  the  changes 
could  be  made  without  driving  him  from  the 
shelter  of  his  own  roof. 

At  the  same  time  that  Gloria  was  planning 
for  the  changes  in  the  country  place  she  and 
Mrs.  Gilbert  were  also  busy  preparing  for  the 
ball  which  would  serve  as  her  formal  introduc- 
tion to  Belmont  society.  Her  time  was  so  en- 
gaged that  she  thought  the  suggestion  of  her 
hostess  an  excellent  one  when  Mrs.  Gilbert 
said  that  it  might  be  better  not  to  become 

[102] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

tangled  up  with  too  many  social  engagements 
at  a  time  when  it  was  more  vital  to  see  that 
the  Locust  Lawn  alterations  were  properly 
under  way.  The  girl  was  aware,  from  what 
she  had  heard  her  father  and  others  say,  that 
things  were  dull  at  present,  and  she  did  not 
wish  to  spur  them  into  a  premature  activity. 
When  the  ball  was  given  for  her  it  would  be 
time  enough  to  begin. 

Mrs.  Gilbert  was  not  letting  things  drift,  al- 
though the  daughter  of  David  Kerr  was  not 
aware  of  it.  Every  one  in  Belmont  knew 
what  Gloria  did  not:  That  she  was  about  to 
make  a  great  effort  to  secure  recognition.  Bel- 
mont was  not  in  a  receptive  mood.  Its  first 
thought  was  that  she  was  the  child  of  a  shrewd 
political  trickster  who  had  fattened  at  the 
expense  of  the  town.  The  offspring  of  the 
leopard  should  not  hope  to  be  without  spots. 

Mrs.  Gilbert  was  clever  enough  to  have  girls 
to  luncheon  whom  she  thought  might  become 
interested  in  Gloria.  They  came,  and  in  the 
majority  of  cases  surprised  Gloria  by  their 
charming  manners  and  their  beautiful  clothes. 

[103] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

Her  court  was  to  be  even  more  brilliant  than 
she  had  dreamed.  The  girls  were  invited  one 
at  a  time,  to  give  both  Gloria  and  the  visitor 
the  opportunity  of  becoming  well  acquainted. 

The  luncheon  guests  came  to  call  afterward, 
but  by  a  strange  mischance  it  was  always  when 
Gloria  was  not  at  home.  She  would  go  to 
the  architect's  office  with  Mrs.  Gilbert,  and 
would  find  on  her  return  that  several  cards  had 
been  left  for  her.  The  ball  was  so  near  that 
she  made  no  attempt  to  pay  any  calls  herself. 
She  was  too  busy. 

Although  railing  at  the  fate  which  took  him 
away  most  of  the  time,  the  first  three  weeks 
after  Gloria's  removal  to  town  were  spent  by 
Judge  Gilbert  in  Chicago.  Occasionally  he 
ran  over  for  a  day,  but  even  then  his  wife  and 
their  guest  saw  little  of  him.  This  would 
have  made  their  evenings  hang  heavy  on  their 
hands  had  it  not  been  for  Joe  Wright.  He 
got  into  the  habit  of  dropping  in  after  dinner 
every  evening  and  several  times  a  week  Mrs. 
Gilbert  had  him  to  dine  with  them.  Late  in 
the  afternoons  he  and  Gloria  often  drove  to- 

[104] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

gether,  the  season  of  the  year  keeping  them 
most  of  the  time  on  the  city  streets.  Once  he 
drove  with  her  to  Locust  Lawn,  but  as  it  was 
late  when  they  reached  there  he  did  not  get 
out,  sitting  in  the  runabout  while  Gloria  ran 
into  the  house  for  a  few  minutes. 

Neither  Wright  nor  Gloria  ever  made  an 
effort  to  direct  the  conversation  into  the  inti- 
mate channel  it  had  taken  the  night  they  first 
had  met  in  Belmont.  One  might  almost  have 
thought  they  had  agreed  to  consider  them- 
selves merely  good  friends,  so  impersonal  were 
they  in  what  they  said.  For  this  there  was  a 
reason;  rather,  there  were  two  reasons,  his 
and  hers. 

Wright  was  keeping  a  firm  grip  on  himself 
because  he  knew  the  truth .  and  was  afraid. 
Gloria  was  self-possessed  and  would  not  have 
permitted  him  to  pass  the  border  of  friendship, 
had  he  dared,  because  she  wished  to  know  Bel- 
mont well.  Even  a  hint  of  an  entangling  al- 
liance would  prove  a  hindrance.  Thus  it 
was  that  each  was  happy  in  the  other's  com- 
pany.     And   if   perchance   they   looked   the 

[105] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

sentiment  that  each  had  inwardly  resolved  not 
to  breathe,  they  were  happier  still  in  the 
thought  that  some  day  their  dreams  would 
come  true. 

The  paper  was  occasioning  Wright  no 
great  anxiety.  Somewhat  to  his  surprise  the 
advertising  revenue  was  showing  most  grati- 
fying gains  caused  by  the  increase  of  local 
business.  The  Banner  had  more  advertising, 
but  the  new  owner  of  the  afternoon  paper 
had  no  cause  to  complain.  Even  his  adver- 
tising manager  could  not  explain  it.  Main 
Street  merchants  who  had  been  out  of  the  pa- 
per for  years  began  to  send  in  copy  without 
solicitation.  This  made  the  head  of  the  ad- 
vertising department  think  that  the  millennium 
was  about  due.  The  real  reason,  unknown  to 
every  one  except  the  merchants  receiving  the 
message,  was  that  Dave  Kerr  had  sent  out  the 
tip  for  them  to  throw  some  of  their  patronage 
to  the  News, 

This  was  a  shrewd  move  on  the  part  of  Kerr. 
He  wanted  Wright  to  have  such  a  volume  of 
business  that  if  he  should  order  all  the  adver- 

[106] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

tising  he  could  influence  cut  off,  the  paper 
would  be  instantly  crippled.  If  the  News  had 
not  much  business,  then  anything  Kerr  might 
cause  to  be  dropped  out  would  only  show  that 
his  power  was  slight.  If  he  had  to  strike  a 
blow  he  wanted  it  to  be  with  a  sledge  hammer. 

Another  important  consideration  which  led 
him  to  take  this  step  was  that  the  merchants 
might  believe,  and  he  tipped  it  off  in  a  manner 
which  would  be  most  apt  to  make  them  jump 
to  that  conclusion,  that  he  was  himself  in- 
terested in  the  News.  This  would  tend  to 
minimize  Wright's  influence  if  he  should  at- 
tempt a  crusade,  since  the  public  would  wink 
and  say,  "It 's  all  a  bluff,  old  man  Kerr  him- 
self is  interested  in  the  paper."  The  boss  even 
calculated  that  this  would  be  strengthened  by 
the  frequency  with  which  Wright  was  seen  in 
his  daughter's  company.  He  was  not  looking 
for  trouble,  he  never  welcomed  it,  but  he 
sought  always  to  be  prepared  when  it  came. 

During  her  first  weeks  at  Mrs.  Gilbert's 
Gloria  saw  little  of  her  father.  She  had  at 
first  frequently  dropped  in  at  his  office,  but  he 

[107] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

had  intimated  that  it  was  no  place  for  her. 
Sometimes  she  would  be  at  Locust  Lawn  when 
Tom  brought  him  home  in  the  afternoon. 
When  Judge  Gilbert  was  home  from  Chicago 
once  he  dined  with  them.  Every  day,  how- 
ever, she  talked  to  him  for  some  time  over  the 
telephone.  He  always  seemed  interested, 
apologized  for  not  seeing  her  more,  and  let  her 
rattle  on  until  she  had  quite  exhausted  the 
news  of  the  day.  Occasionally  he  complained 
to  her  of  his  rheumatism — no  one  had  ever 
heard  him  speak  of  it  before — and  she  would 
beg  him  to  take  good  care  of  himself,  since 
it  was  with  him  that  she  wished  to  dance  first 
at  her  ball. 

There  was  one  girl  whom  Mrs.  Gilbert 
sought  as  a  friend  for  Gloria.  She  mentioned 
it  to  her  husband  the  first  day  their  guest  ar- 
rived, and  he  suggested  that  she  be  invited  to 
lunch  the  next  day.  Accordingly  Mrs.  Gil- 
bert telephoned  Miss  Laura  Piper  and  asked 
her.  For  the  following  day,  however.  Miss 
Piper  had  an  engagement.  When  several 
other  days  were  mentioned  she  had  engage- 

[108] 


I 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

merits  for  those  also.  Could  she  have  been 
made  to  accept  Gloria,  the  task  of  conquering 
Belmont  would  instantly  become  less  arduous. 
Her  father  was  head  of  the  great  Piper  Min- 
ing Company,  and  her  family  was  looked  upon 
as  one  of  the  most  exclusive  in  the  whole  state. 
If  Laura  Piper  would,  she  could  make  it  ex- 
tremely pleasant  for  Gloria.  But  Laura 
Piper  had  her  own  and  her  family's  ideas 
about  the  Kerr  breed,  and  no  matter  how 
nice  Gloria  might  be,  she  was  still  her  father's 
daughter. 

Mrs.  Gilbert  reported  her  lack  of  success 
to  her  husband  on  his  return  from  his  first 
trip  to  Chicago,  and  he  mentioned  it,  almost 
casually,  to  David  Kerr  when  they  met  the 
next  day.  The  boss  inquired  the  particulars, 
but  made  no  comment.  That  he  was  not  un- 
mindful of  the  episode  developed  two  days 
later  when  the  Piper  Coal  Company  received  a 
complaint  from  the  secretarj'^  of  the  school 
board  that  there  was  an  undue  quantity  of 
slate  in  the  last  coal  furnished  the  public 
schools.     While  worrying  with  this,  the  com- 

[109] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

pany's  legal  department  sent  word  to  the  presi- 
dent that  the  city  solicitor  had  just  notified 
the  company  that  one  of  the  important  spurs 
into  an  uptown  coal  yard  crossed  a  street  with- 
out authority  of  law. 

Old  man  Piper  swore  by  all  the  gods  in 
mythology  that  it  was  the  worst  outrage  ever 
perpetrated  upon  him  in  all  his  business  life. 
He  had  but  a  day  or  two  to  catch  his  breath 
before  Mrs.  Gilbert  telephoned  at  the  dinner 
hour  asking  Laura  to  luncheon  the  next  day. 
The  whole  thing  dawned  on  him  when  Laura 
flounced  back  from  the  telephone  and  an- 
nounced petulantly  that  she  would  not  meet 
that  odious  Gloria  Kerr.  He  said  nothing  un- 
til after  dinner,  then  calling  Laura  aside  he 
ordered  her  to  telephone  Mrs.  Gilbert  and 
withdraw  her  refusal.  His  pocketbook  hav- 
ing been  hit.  Piper  was  willing  to  make  some 
sacrifice  to  determine  the  reason  and  what  he 
was  to  expect  in  the  way  of  further  attack. 
He  kept  his  mouth  closed,  and  waited. 

Laura  returned  from  the  luncheon  with  a 
favorable  opinion  of  Gloria,  but  she  could  not 

[110] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

forget  her  parentage.  Upon  being  questioned 
she  told  her  father  she  did  not  care  to  put 
Gloria  on  her  visiting  list. 

"Suppose  I  have  some  one  to  visit  me  who 
asks:  'Who  is  that  girl  you  introduced  me 
to?'  complained  Laura.  *And  I  '11  have  to 
say,  'That 's  Gloria  Kerr,  the  boss's  daughter.' 
Then  what  will  the  visiting  girl  think  of  Bel- 
mont society,  and  what  will  she  think  of  me? 
I  'm  sure  I  would  be  surprised  if  I  went  to 
visit  any  one  and  they  introduced  me  to  the  son 
or  daughter  of  a  man  like  Kerr." 

"Laura,"  answered  her  father,  "I  think 
you  'd  better  go  down  to  New  York  for  a  cou- 
ple of  months." 

And  two  days  later  Laura  went,  after  hav- 
ing called  when  Gloria  was  not  at  home.  She 
never  knew  why  her  father  urged  her  to  go. 

Piper  felt  it  would  be  cheaper  to  pay  the 
expense  of  a  New  York  trip  than  to  have  his 
company  stand  the  continuous  annoyances  by 
which  it  could  be  worried,  if  what  he  suspected 
was  true.  When  he  inquired  about  coal 
for  the  school  board  the  complaint  department 

[111] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

reported  that  the  secretary  had  been  mollified 
but  hoped  it  would  not  happen  again.  As  for 
the  city  solicitor,  the  legal  department  re- 
frained from  asking  anything  about  the  track 
across  the  street  and  that  official  never  wrote 
again. 

Old  man  Piper  kept  his  mouth  shut,  but 
he  knew  he  had  been  taught  a  lesson. 

Kerr  was  keeping  a  sharp  eye  on  things, 
but  his  hand  was  suspected  rather  than  seen 
in  any  move  that  was  made.  As  the  time  for 
the  ball  approached,  his  rheumatism  troubled 
him  more  and  more,  and  upon  the  advice  of 
Dr.  Hayes  he  decided  to  go  to  Esmeralda 
Springs  to  drink  the  water.  Sam  Hayes  took 
him  down  and  came  back  with  the  comforting 
report  that  he  was  already  better.  He  was 
not  well  enough,  however,  to  return  for  the 
baU. 

The  ball  given  in  honor  of  Miss  Gloria  Kerr 
at  the  Belmont  Club  by  Judge  and  Mrs.  Gil- 
bert was  a  memorable  affair.  The  ballroom 
was  crowded,  and  Gloria  deserved  the  praise 
she  received  from  every  quarter  on  her  beauty, 

[112] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

her  cleverness,  and  her  light-hearted  tempera- 
ment. She  did  not  hear  the  expressions  of 
regret  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  David 
Kerr.  The  next  morning  the  Belmont  Ban- 
ner had  a  two-column  head  over  the  story,  and 
gave  a  long  list  of  names  preceded  by  "among 
those  invited  were,"  instead  of  by  the  usual 
"among  those  present  were."  There  were  a 
number  notable  by  their  absence,  but  there  be- 
ing a  large  crowd  present  and  she  being  a 
stranger,  Gloria  did  not  know  this.  She  was 
too  busy  with  the  men  to  think  of  what  girls 
were  present. 

Truth  to  tell,  it  was  a  fairly  representative 
assemblage,  drawn  together  out  of  regard  for 
Judge  and  Mrs.  Gilbert  and  also  by  curiosity 
to  see  what  kind  of  girl  Gloria  Kerr  was.  If 
the  president  of  the  Piper  Coal  Company  had 
stopped  the  poker  game  at  the  Belmont  Club 
the  night  before  to  tell  his  experience  there 
would  have  been  several  young  ladies  among 
those  at  the  ball  who  did  not  lend  the  charm 
of  their  presence  to  that  occasion. 

When    Gloria    danced    with    Wright,    she 

8  [113] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

searched  the  line  to  find  a  Behnont  man  to 
compare  with  him,  and  to  her  thinking  there 
was  not  one  in  the  same  class.  As  for  Wright, 
his  search  was  over  the  night  they  had  met 
again  in  Belmont. 

In  their  first  dance,  holding  her  close  as  if 
to  shield  her  from  all  the  world,  he  called  to 
mind  the  day  at  Versailles  when  together  they 
had  wandered  through  the  gardens.  Then  he 
had  repeated  some  verses  from  the  book  he  had 
given  her  on  her  birthday.  Now  as  they 
danced  he  whispered : 

"Do  you  remember 

Spring  in  the  hills,  Beloved, 

On  the  side  of  a  meadowed  slope; 

And  love  in  our  hearts.  Beloved, 
Love  and  Spring  and  Hope." 

"I  remember.  We  were  going  out  there 
again,  but  you  never  came  back ;  and  so  I  went 
alone." 

"I  wish  you  had  taken  our  book,"  he  said. 
He  always  referred  to  the  book  of  verses  as 
being  their  joint  property.  "It  would  have 
told  you  what  I  was  not  there  to  say." 

[114] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

Gloria  smiled.  Never  a  word  had  been 
said,  but  each  understood. 

"I  knew  one  thing  the  book  said,"  she  con- 
fessed. "It  was  what  I  said — and  said  more 
times  than  one: 

Come  over  the  sea  to  me,  to  me. 

Come  over  the  sea  to  me. 
The  little  ships  go  sailing  by 
But  never  a  ship  brings  thee!" 

They  danced,  forgetful  of  everything  but 
that  they  were  together.  A  man  had  cried  in 
the  wilderness  of  the  world  for  his  mate  and 
she  had  answered. 

Wright  would  have  gone  farther,  have  made 
a  formal  declaration,  but  first  he  wanted  sev- 
eral things  settled.  He  felt  that  he  could  not 
stay  in  Belmont  if  he  married  Gloria.  How 
to  get  rid  of  the  paper  was  a  question.  He 
hoped  through  a  newspaper  broker  to  trade 
it  for  one  in  some  other  place.  Then  he  and 
Gloria  could  begin  life  there  together.  The 
News  was  beginning  to  make  money,  paying 
its  way  and  leaving  something  for  future  pay- 
ments on  the  property.     Best  of  all,  there  was 

[115] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

no  fight  on  his  hands  which  would  hold  him  in 
Belmont. 

Mrs.  Gilbert  came  into  Gloria's  room  to  kiss 
her  good  night  after  the  ball.  When  they  had 
talked  over  the  affair  for  an  hour  the  girl  cried 
in  the  ecstasy  of  her  joy. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Gilbert,  tonight  I  am  the  hap- 
piest girl  in  the  whole  wide  world." 

On  that  very  night  Alderman  Grunewald 
introduced  an  ordinance  giving  the  Belmont 
Interurban  Railway,  a  new  corporation,  right 
of  way  down  Maple  Avenue  and  making  pro- 
vision that  a  small  depot  should  be  provided 
for  the  convenience  of  patrons  at  Benton 
Park. 


[116] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHEN  Wright  reached  his  office  the 
morning  after  the  ball,  he  found 
his  attorney,  Arthur  Morrison, 
waiting  for  him.  He  had  been  drawn  to  Mor- 
rison the  first  time  he  had  met  him  and  had 
asked  him  to  take  care  of  the  paper's  legal 
business.  In  this  his  judgment  had  not  been 
warped  by  a  sudden  friendship,  for  the  young 
lawyer  was  worthy  of  his  confidence.  Like 
Judge  Gilbert,  he  had  risen  from  an  humble 
home,  but  unlike  the  adviser  of  Belmont 
corporations  he  had  make  his  way  inde- 
pendently of  the  malign  influences  which  con- 
stantly seem  to  seek  to  attract  young  men  of 
talent  who  follow  the  law  as  a  profession.  To 
him  both  as  his  legal  adviser  and  his  friend, 
Wright  had  talked  freely  and  had  rejoiced  to 
learn  that  Morrison's  ideals  and  hopes  for  Bel- 
mont were  the  same  as  his  own. 

[117] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Even  if  you  hadn't  asked  me  to  watch 
things  with  you  while  you  are  still  a  stranger 
to  Belmont,"  Morrison  began,  "I  think  I  would 
have  come  to  you.  Last  night  while  we  were 
enjopng  ourselves  a  bill  was  introduced  in 
the  council  for  a  car  line  down  Maple  Avenue." 

"I  saw  an  account  of  it  in  the  Banner,  and 
thought  it  strange  nothing  had  been  made  pub- 
lic before  it  was  introduced.  Who  wants  the 
franchise?" 

"They  *re  under  cover.  It 's  the  Belmont 
Interurban  Company,  a  New  Jersey  corpora- 
tion, and  the  men  named  as  incorporators  are 
only  dummies."   ' 

"That  is  n't  usual,  is  it,  with  honest  men?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  more  about  it  than 
you  do,  but  you  'd  better  investigate." 

"When  does  the  bill  have  its  next  reading?" 
asked  Wright,  after  considering  what  was  the 
paper's  best  move. 

"Not  until  Tuesday  night." 

"That  gives  us  five  days.  If  we  make  a 
noise  won't  they  call  a  special  meeting  and 
push  it  through?" 

[118] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"Kerr  is  n't  likely  to  do  that.  He 's  inter- 
ested, I  suppose,  but  how?" 

"We  '11  get  busy  to-day,"  Wright  said  de- 
cisively. "A  few  pointed  questions  on  the 
front  page  may  bring  them  out  from  under 
cover." 

In,  the  conference  which  ensued  the  two  men 
discussed  every  possible  phase  of  the  question, 
yet  they  never  dreamed  that  it  was  part  of  the 
stock-yards  scheme.  What  aroused  suspicion 
as  much  as  anything  else  was  that  there  was 
nothing  they  could  find  on  which  to  base  sus- 
picion. When  Morrison  left  it  was  with  the 
intention  of  scrutinizing  a  copy  of  the  proposed 
ordinance  carefully. 

Wright  sent  a  reporter  to  interview  Alder- 
man Grunewald,  and  all  other  reporters  were 
instructed  to  find  out  what  the  public  thought 
of  it  and  any  definite  facts  that  could  be 
brought  to  light.  The  city  editor  himself  took 
an  hour  off  to  go  to  the  office  of  Rosenbaum 
&  Rosenbaum,  who  it  was  learned  had  given 
Grunewald  the  bill  to  present  for  them. 

The  drag  net  which  the  News  spread  did 
[119] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

not  seem  productive  of  results  calculated  to 
bring  anything  to  light.  Alderman  Grune- 
wald  had  introduced  it  at  the  request  of  his 
good  friends  Rosenbaum  &  Rosenbaum  and 
knew  nothing  about  it. 

Rosenbaum  &  Rosenbaum  said  that  the 
proposed  franchise  spoke  for  itself,  and  that 
the  road  would  prove  of  inestimable  benefit  to 
Belmont,  since  in  the  near  future  it  would  be 
extended  to  Corona,  and  all  the  people  of  that 
little  town  and  the  villages  along  the  line  would 
do  their  shopping  in  Belmont.  The  incorpora- 
tors were  Chicago  men  with  plenty  of  capital 
back  of  them. 

Wright  telegraphed  a  Chicago  news  agency 
to  find  out  who  the  incorporators  were.  At 
his  suggestion  the  city  editor  tried  to  get  Kerr 
at  Esmeralda  Springs  by  telephone,  but  was 
unsuccessful. 

Only  one  clue  was  found  which  of  itself 
was  suspicious,  and  it  was  not  one  which  could 
be  used  that  afternoon.  The  courthouse  re- 
porter had  dropped  into  the  county  surveyor's 
office,  and  talked  about  surveying  in  general 

[120] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

and  the  work  in  Belmont  County  in  particular. 
Was  anything  going  on  just  then?  This 
elicited  the  reply  that  the  spring  was  not  far 
enough  advanced  for  the  usual  work,  but  that 
the  stock-yards  company  had  had  men  out. 
What  were  they  doing?  They  were  seeing 
how  they  could  save  their  tracks  along  the  river 
and  rearranging  the  quarantine  tracks  for 
Texas  cattle  which  were  by  themselves  to  the 
east  of  the  main  yards.  This  was  all  the  court- 
house man  brought  back  to  the  office,  but  it 
was  duly  presented  to  Wright  by  the  city 
editor. 

That  afternoon  Belmont  rubbed  its  eyes  as 
it  looked  at  the  front  page  of  the  News.  In 
the  last  column  under  an  extended  head  was 
a  story  about  the  proposed  car  line  down 
Maple  Avenue.  It  was  not  replete  with  facts 
and  figures,  but  it  asked  a  great  many  ques- 
tions and  contained  several  interviews  which 
said  nothing.  Even  the  property  o^vners  along 
Maple  Avenue  who  had  consented  to  the  line 
and  then  been  pledged  to  secrecy  until  the  mat- 
ter was  made  public  by  the  introduction  of  the 

[121] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

bill  in  the  council,  knew  nothing  more  than  that 
Rosenbaum  &  Rosenbaum  had  secured  their 
consent. 

The  Chicago  News  agency  did  not  send 
what  information  it  gathered  until  too  late  for 
use  on  that  day. 

Sam  Hayes  bought  a  paper  on  the  street, 
read  the  story,  and  rushed  for  a  telephone. 
He  paid  two  dollars  and  thirty  cents  for  the 
privilege,  one  could  not  call  it  pleasure,  of  talk- 
ing with  Kerr  at  Esmeralda  Springs.  He 
read  the  paper  to  the  boss,  the  front  page  story 
and  the  trenchant  short  editorial  of  inquiry. 
Kerr  asked  that  he  be  connected  with  Gilbert, 
but  already  the  judge  was  trying  to  get 
Esmeralda  Springs,  having  seen  the  News 
just  a  few  minutes  after  Hayes.  Their  con- 
versation was  short,  Kerr  knew  the  facts,  and 
it  was  mainly  a  discussion  of  how  the  Banner 
should  treat  the  matter  in  the  morning.  The 
boss  decided  his  paper  should  insist  that  the 
News  was  trying  to  knock  the  town.  The  at- 
tack was  to  be  upon  the  News,  thus  diverting 
attention  from  the  real  issue.     This  command, 

[122] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

properly  phrased,  was  dropped  Into  the  eager 
ear  of  Deacon  Winthrow,  and  he  proceeded  to 
write  a  scathing  editorial  holding  up  to  scorn 
the  paper  which  would  try  to  barricade  the 
path  of  the  car  of  progress.  The  deacon  felt 
proud  of  his  editorial  when  he  read  it  in  the 
proof,  and  was  warmed  with  a  self-satisfied 
glow  to  think  that  he  had  thought  of  it.  He 
still  lived  in  the  age  of  personal  journalism  and 
to  lambast  the  other  fellow  personally  was  part 
of  his  editorial  creed. 

Before  the  paper  came  out,  Wright  tele- 
phoned Gloria  that  he  would  be  unable  to  drive 
with  her  but  that  he  would  call  in  the  evening. 
They  had  reached  the  point  in  their  fast  friend- 
ship where  she  was  not  unwilling  to  pout  and 
let  him  know  how  disappointed  she  was. 

It  was  four  o'clock  when  Morrison  arrived 
at  the  News  office  with  a  copy  of  the  proposed 
franchise.  As  he  threw  it  on  the  table  in 
Wright's  private  office  he  exclaimed: 

"If  that  goes  through,  the  company  can  do 
anything  according  to  its  provision  except 
commit  murder." 

[123] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"I  suspected  as  much,"  replied  Wright. 
"What  right  of  way  have  they?" 

Morrison  went  to  the  map  of  Beknont  on 
the  wall  and  located  the  city  terminus  of  the 
proposed  line. 

"Here 's  where  they  start  on  their  own 
tracks,"  he  explained.  "You  see,  there  's  a 
provision  in  the  charter  of  the  Belmont  Trac- 
tion Company  whereby  any  interurban  line  can 
use  its  tracks  into  the  heart  of  the  city  upon 
payment  of  a  fair  rental.  Here 's  the  Town- 
send  Park  Line  coming  down  Bluff  Street, 
and  right  here  where  Bluff  Street  crosses 
Maple  Avenue  the  Interurban's  own  tracks 
will  start." 

"Then  how  does  it  run?" 

"South  on  Maple  Avenue  and  Maple  road, 
to  a  private  right  of  way  which  begins  east  of 
the  stock-yards  and  parallels  the  county  road 
to  Corona." 

Wright  studied  the  map  earnestly. 

"You  see,  I  'm  too  new  to  know  that  neigh- 
borhood," he  said.  "Why  did  they  pick 
Maple  Avenue?" 

[124] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"It 's  the  only  street  they  can  use  in  that 
part  of  town.  It 's  the  natural  artery  for  that 
new  district  out  there,  since  there  are  hills  on 
both  sides  of  it." 

Wright  still  puzzled  over  the  map. 

"What  are  those  red  lines  crossing  Maple 
Avenue  about  two  blocks  south  of  Bluff 
Street?"  was  his  next  question. 

"Those?  They  are  the  railway  tracks  of  all 
the  lines  entering  Belmont  except  those  that 
come  down  the  river  from  the  north." 

"Are  they  going  to  build  a  viaduct  there?" 

"Nothing  is  said  about  it." 

The  new  venture  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
Belmont — if  the  company  would  confine  itself 
to  good  works.  The  most  objectionable  thing 
was  the  lack  of  frankness  on  the  part  of  the 
men  back  of  the  enterprise.  Here  was  a 
corporation  seeking  to  serve  the  public  and  not 
taking  the  public  into  its  confidence. 

While  Morrison  and  the  pubhsher  of  the 
News  were  canvassing  the  situation,  a  telegram 
from  the  Chicago  News  Agency  was  delivered 
to  Wright.     It  read: 

[125] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Hammersley  is  the  private  secretary  of 
Adolphus  Koerner,  Koerner  &  Co.,  packers. 
Others  are  clerks  in  law  office  of  Kendall, 
Strang  &  Kendall." 

"By  George!"  exclaimed  Wright.  "The 
stock-yards  company!" 

Then  he  remembered  what  the  county  sur- 
veyor had  innocently  told.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  of  it.  The  stock-yards  company  was 
making  some  move  which  it  did  not  dare  make 
openly. 

"It  looks  like  it,"  assented  Morrison. 
"Have  you  any  idea  what  they  want?" 

"Not  the  slightest.  They  're  not  fighting 
the  traction  company,  I  know." 

This,  thought  Wright,  explained  Gilbert's 
many  visits  to  Chicago  recently.  The  stock- 
yards attorney  had  apparently  no  connection 
with  the  new  company,  but  Wright  and  Mor- 
rison, too,  when  it  was  explained  to  him,  were 
both  of  the  opinion  that  he  was  directing  every 
move.     If  he  was  in  it,  David  Kerr  was  in  it; 

[126] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

and  if  David  Kerr  was  in  it,  he  was  not  in  it 
for  his  health. 

In  seeking  to  unravel  the  tangled  skein  they 
now  had  a  loose  end  to  work  with.  They  could 
not  imagine,  however,  why  the  stock-yards 
company  was  entering  the  street  car  field  in 
such  a  peculiar  manner. 

Wright  sat  with  his  chair  tilted  back  against 
the  wall,  his  hands  behind  his  head,  gazing  at 
the  map  on  the  wall  opposite. 

"Morrison,  a  newspaper  man  has  to  trust  in 
many  cases  to  his  sixth  sense ;  that 's  his  nose 
for  news,  for  the  big  story.  Often  he  misses 
fire,  but  when  he  does  hit  the  bull's-eye  every- 
body knows  it.'*  Such  was  Wright's  preamble 
as  he  brought  his  chair  down  on  the  floor  and 
prepared  to  tell  the  lawyer  what  his  sixth  sense 
had  made  him  feel  was  the  real  object  of  the 
game.  "The  stock -yards  company  is  prepar- 
ing to  steal  a  street." 

"What!"  gasped  Morrison.  "What  makes 
you  think  so?" 

"Everything.  See  how  the  river  is  eating 
[127] 


THE  DAUGHTER      jjflk 

up  the  only  tracks  to  the  stock-yard.  They  Ve 
got  to  get  to  the  yards  farther  east.  Maple 
Avenue  is  the  easiest  way.  The  franchise  says 
nothing  about  what  kind  of  cars  are  to  run, 
how  they  are  to  be  propelled,  or  what  they  are 
to  carry.  I  '11  bet  they  are  going  to  run  cat- 
tle cars  filled  with  hogs  and  sheep  and  cattle 
down  Maple  Avenue,  and  pull  them  with 
steam  engines,  too." 

"I  won't  believe  it,"  protested  the  lawyer. 
"Maple  Avenue  is  a  residence  street  1" 

"The  stock-yards  company  is  a  foreign  cor- 
poration interested  only  in  dividends." 

"Look  at  Benton  Park  I" 

"Yes,  take  a  good  look;  you  won't  want  to 
in  a  year  from  now.'* 

"I  don't  believe  it." 

"Any  way,  that 's  the  theory  I  'm  going  on. 
If  it  is  correct,  I  've  struck  the  nail  on  the 
head  with  my  first  guess.  If  it  is  wrong,  I  '11 
keep  hammering  away  until  the  public  de- 
mands and  is  given  the  truth.  If  I  'm  wrong, 
then  they  '11  soon  be  smoked  out.  They  can't 
stand  being  so  misinterpreted  when  asking  the 

[128]  ^ 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

public  for  a  favor.  But  I  'm  right,  I  tell  you. 
They  're  going  to  connect  with  the  railway 
tracks  where  they  cross  Maple  Avenue  two 
blocks  below  Bluff  Street.  Such  a  belt  line 
railway  will  be  extremely  valuable." 

It  was  after  six  o'clock  before  they  decided 
to  leave  the  office.  As  every  pro  and  con  of 
the  situation  had  not  been  exhausted,  they  ad- 
journed to  the  Belmont  Club  for  dinner  and 
there  continued  puzzling  over  the  franchise 
and  its  meaning. 

Shortly  before  eight  o'clock  Wright  drained 
his  coffee  cup  and  looked  across  the  table  at  his 
companion. 

"Doing  anything  tonight?"  he  inquired. 

"No.     Nothing  on  hand  that  I  know  of." 

"I  'm  calling  on  Miss  Kerr  to-night.  I 
want  you  to  go  with  me;  I  can't  go  alone." 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  to,"  replied  the  young 
lawyer,  successfully  conceahng  his  surprise. 

Wright  realized  the  fight  was  on.     He  also 

knew  what  Gloria  had  come  to  mean  to  him, 

and  after  what  they  had  said  last  night  he  was 

afraid  to  see  her  alone.     Now  his  first  duty 

»  [129] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

was  to  the  public,  that  public  which  so  often 
accepts  benefits  and  sacrifices  all  unconscious 
of  its  own  gain  and  what  the  cost  has  been. 
For  the  general  good,  for  an  ideal,  for  his  be- 
lief in  what  a  paper  should  be,  he  was  putting 
aside — ^just  for  the  time,  his  heart  told  him — 
the  one  woman  who  could  make  him  supremely 
happy. 

The  deferring  of  hope  was  heavy  upon 
Wright's  heart  as  with  Morrison  he  walked  in 
silence  to  Gilbert's  house.  To  himself  he 
kept  repeating  some  verses  from  their  "birth- 
day book" : 

In  the  twilight  we  parted, 
In  the  night  broken-hearted 
We  dreamed  a  sweet  dream. 
Then  we  met  and  we  parted 
Again  broken-hearted. 
But  dreams  come  again. 


[130] 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  story  Wright  had  printed  the  first 
day  and  the  reply  it  drew  from  the 
Banner  the  next  morning  caused  the 
News  to  be  awaited  with  undisguised  eager- 
ness on  the  second  afternoon.  This  was 
heightened  on  the  part  of  the  men  in  the  syn- 
dicate interested  in  the  franchise  by  the  perti- 
nent questions  put  to  them  in  the  morning  by 
News  reporters.  David  Kerr  was  called  on 
the  telephone  half  a  dozen  times  by  his  lieuten- 
ants, and  arrangements  were  made  to  have  a 
line  open  to  Esmeralda  Springs  at  three- 
thirty,  the  hour  when  the  News  was  issued. 

Although  they  were  prepared  to  discount 
some  of  the  story  because  of  the  questions 
asked  them,  yet  none  of  the  ring  men  was  pre- 
pared for  a  revelation  of  the  scheme  such  as 
the  News  made.  Black  headlines  ran  across 
four  columns  and  the  story  also  took  up  most 

[131] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

of  the  second  page.  There  was  a  map  of  the 
proposed  inter-urban  route,  and  pictures  of 
pretty  homes  on  Maple  Avenue.  But  from 
one  end  of  the  story  to  the  other  there  was  no 
mention  of  David  Kerr  or  of  the  local  backing 
being  given  the  bill  before  the  council.  It  was 
expressly  stated  that  the  incorporators  of  the 
new  company  were  merely  dummies  and 
that  they  were  acting  in  the  interest  of  the 
stock-yards  company. 

Amos  Gilbert  in  an  interview  denied  any 
knowledge  of  the  transaction,  saying  that  his 
connection  with  the  stock-yards  company  was 
merely  nominal  and  that  he  did  not  even  know 
if  the  company  was  interested  in  the  line 
proposed.  He  did  not  see  how,  as  a  company, 
it  could  be. 

Gilbert  sat  in  his  office  as  soon  as  he  secured 
a  paper  and  read  the  story  word  for  word  over 
the  telephone  to  Kerr.  The  latter  promptly 
announced  that  he  would  be  home  the  next 
day,  and  ordered  that  Gloria  be  taken  from 
Belmont  on  any  pretext  whatever  for  a  few 
days  until  the  fight  had  been  allowed  to  die 

[132] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

down.  The  next  day  was  Sunday,  on  which 
Wright  published  no  paper,  and  Kerr  would 
be  home  before  another  issue  appeared.  He 
agreed  with  Gilbert  that  the  Banner  ought  to 
ridicule  the  alleged  expose. 

Sunday  night,  much  to  her  surprise  but  not 
much  against  her  will,  Gloria  went  to  St.  Louis 
with  Mrs.  Gilbert  to  pick  out  furniture  for 
Locust  Lawn.  She  did  not  know  that  her  fa- 
ther had  returned  from  Esmeralda  Springs 
that  morning  and  had  been  closeted  all  after- 
noon with  Gilbert  and  John  Kendall,  who  had 
hurried  to  Belmont  in  response  to  a  tele- 
gram. The  girl  had  not  seen  Wright  all  day, 
nor  had  she  seen  him  Saturday,  but  there  came 
from  him  a  box  of  roses  at  noon.  Little  witch 
that  she  was,  she  meant  to  surprise  him  by 
sending  him  a  note  of  thanks  from  St.  Louis. 
She  knew  he  would  join  her  and  Mrs.  Gilbert 
there  on  her  hint  that  they  would  be  glad  to 
see  him. 

Wright  received  her  note  and  perceived  the 
slightly  veiled  invitation,  but  he  was  too  busy 
even  to  answer.     It  was  a  week  that  contained 

[133] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

more  excitement  than  Belmont  had  seen 
since,  a  frontier  village,  it  had  struggled  with 
the  question  of  whether  the  state  should  se- 
cede or  remain  in  the  Union.  David  Kerr 
found  himself  confronted  by  a  formidable  line 
of  battle.  The  Banner  kept  pounding  away 
at  the  News,  but  the  afternoon  paper  was  not 
to  be  diverted  from  its  purpose.  The  citizens 
on  Maple  Avenue  formed  the  Maple  League, 
and  wore  buttons  on  which  were  a  maple  leaf 
and  the  legend,  "Help  us  save  our  homes." 
The  car  line  was  to  run  through  the  seventh 
and  eighth  wards,  and  the  aldermen  in  those 
wards  were  deluged  with  letters,  post  cards, 
telephone  calls  and  personal  visits.  Finally 
they  went  to  David  Kerr  and  begged  him  that 
if  he  had  enough  votes  without  them  to  let 
them  oppose  the  franchise  as  they  were  in  the 
midst  of  their  canvass  for  re-election.  The 
boss  held  them  in  line. 

The  bill  had  its  second  reading  at  the  coun- 
cil meeting  Tuesday,  but  under  orders  from 
Kerr  nothing  further  was  done  with  it  at  that 
time.     He  began  to  worry  about  the  approach- 

[134] 


OF  DAVID  KERR      « 

ing  election.  What  to  him  was  the  passing 
of  the  bill  at  that  time  compared  to  the  control 
of  the  city  for  the  next  two  years?  If  he  let 
it  sleep  now  and  the  election  went  his  way 
then  it  could  be  passed  soon  after.  By  the 
time  another  election  rolled  around,  Belmont 
would  have  forgotten. 

So  it  came  about  that  the  democrats  tried 
to  forget  the  franchise.  When  the  bill  dis- 
appeared they  were  loud  in  their  denunciation 
of  the  republican  thieves  who  had  stolen  it. 
With  this  outburst  they  were  willing  to  subside 
and  forget  the  matter,  but  this  the  News 
would  not  permit.  Wright  kept  it  to  the 
front  and  the  democrats  were  forced  to  ac- 
cept it  as  an  issue.  The  continuous  attitude 
of  apology  necessitated  by  this  was  weakening 
them  every  day.  The  independent  wave 
which  had  been  sweeping  over  the  country 
had  been  late  in  striking  Belmont,  there  hav- 
ing been  no  newspaper  to  marshal  the  forces, 
but  now  it  was  increasing  to  the  volume  of  a 
tidal  wave  which  Kerr  would  have  hard  work 
pouring  oil  upon. 

[135] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

The  editor  of  the  News  recognized  that  it 
was  only  a  Phyrric  victory  he  had  won  by 
securing  the  shelving  of  the  franchise  for  the 
present.  He  was  not  bhnd  to  the  fact  that 
the  franchise  would  bob  up  serenely  after  elec- 
tion. Now  that  he  had  aroused  the  town  and 
had  committed  himself  to  a  fight  against  the 
ring,  he  determined  to  carry  it  on.  It  had 
not  been  his  purpose,  before  the  franchise  bill 
had  drawn  his  fire,  to  enter  with  great  heat 
into  the  coming  election  campaign,  but  he  saw 
that  the  impetus  given  the  opponents  of  the 
machine  would  carry  them  well  on  toward  vic- 
tory at  the  polls.  Carrying  the  election 
would  be  a  great  advertisement  for  the  paper. 
If  it  lost,  the  News  could  not  be  any  worse 
off  than  it  was  now. 

Kerr  forgot  none  of  the  precautions  he  had 
taken  in  being  prepared  to  embarrass  Wright 
in  his  work  if  the  occasion  should  arise.  The 
merchants  who,  through  Kerr's  influence,  had 
patronized  the  News,  suddenly  withdrew  their 
advertising.  Many  who  had  been  in  before 
the  paper  had  changed  hands  now  ceased  to 

[1361 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

use  its  columns.  If  a  grocery  store  was  using 
the  News  and  furnishing  supplies  to  the  work- 
house or  the  jail,  it  faced  the  alternative  of 
losing  a  fat  account  or  confining  its  advertising 
to  the  Banner.  The  proprietor,  being  part  of 
the  machine,  else  nothing  would  ever  have 
been  purchased  from  him  for  the  city's  use, 
promptly  gave  up  the  News.  It  was  the  same 
with  meat  markets.  Other  lines  of  business 
were  approached  in  other  ways,  but  the  result 
was  always  the  same, — a  loss  of  advertising 
revenue  to  the  News.  Even  the  railroads 
were  derelict  in  delivering  his  white  paper, 
and  Wright  spent  many  an  anxious  hour  trac- 
ing cars  from  the  mill  to  find  them  lost  in  the 
Belmont  yards. 

One  valuable  source  of  information  was  de- 
veloped by  the  News  in  a  former  machine 
hanger-on  named  Jack  Durken.  He  came  to 
work  in  the  circulation  department  of  the  pa- 
per, and  Wright  first  heard  of  him  through 
the  circulation  manager.  At  Wright's  re- 
quest the  man  came  to  his  office  and  from  his 
story  the  editor  gathered  that  he  had  not  re- 

[1871 


THE  DAUGHTER 

ceived  fair  treatment  at  the  hands  of  the  other 
gangsters.  He  had  lived  in  the  disreputable 
first  ward,  and  had  had  trouble  with  Mike 
Noonan,  a  ward  leader.  For  his  work  he  had 
been  made  a  street  cleaning  inspector,  but 
after  having  incurred  the  ire  of  Noonan  had 
lost  his  job. 

Nothing  the  enemy  did  was  able  to  keep 
Wright  from  publishing  a  paper  every  day. 
Every  issue  was  a  constant  reminder  to  Bel- 
mont that  things  were  not  as  they  should  be 
and  that  the  way  to  remedy  conditions  was  to 
defeat  the  city  machine  at  the  polls.  The  ed- 
itor spent  all  his  daylight  hours  at  his  office, 
and  often  was  there  until  late  in  the  night  in 
conference  ^ith  various  leaders.  The  repub- 
licans had  some  old  scores  to  settle,  and  this 
was  their  chance.  The  postmaster  was  usu- 
ally to  be  found  on  Kerr's  side,  although  under 
cover,  but  this  time  he  could  not  afford  to  use 
his  influence  for  the  democrats  in  city  affairs 
— even  for  a  consideration.  The  democratic 
boss  knew  the  game  too  well  to  press  him. 

In  the  last  days  of  the  campaign  the  re- 

[138] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

publican  leaders  learned  with  surprise  that 
Senator  McMinitry,  the  state  republican  boss, 
was  coming  to  Belmont  for  a  day.  They  had 
not  sent  for  him,  and  were  at  a  loss  to  account 
for  the  visit.  He  had  not  taken  any  one  into 
his  confidence,  merely  saying  he  was  coming 
on  business.  Why  he  should  journey  from 
Washington  to  Belmont  for  so  short  a  stay 
they  could  not  understand.  He  gave  it  out 
that  he  was  making  a  flying  visit  to  his  home, 
but  he  came  straight  to  Belmont.  Only  two 
men  besides  the  senator  knew  his  mission,  the 
emissary  who  carried  the  message  to  Wash- 
ington and  the  man  who  sent  for  him.  David 
Kerr  wanted  to  see  him. 

It  was  only  three  days  before  election  when 
Senator  McJNIinitry  visited  Belmont.  He 
went  to  the  Hotel  Belmont  and  took  a  suite  of 
rooms,  but  did  not  register.  After  talking  to 
David  Kerr  over  the  telephone,  he  ordered  an 
early  luncheon  for  two  served  in  his  pri- 
vate parlor.  Kerr  arrived  before  the  table 
was  spread  and  inmiediately  began  to  explain 
the  situation.     All  through  the  meal  the  two 

[139] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

men  talked,  McMinitry  questioning  and  Kerr 
explaining. 

Practical  politics  was  the  business  of  Sen- 
ator James  McMinitry  just  as  it  was  of  Mr. 
David  Kerr.  He  had  grown  up  in  a  repub- 
lican stronghold  and  had  seen  that  his  chance 
was  with  that  party,  just  as  Kerr  had  seen  that 
in  Belmont,  his  success  lay  in  corraling  the 
democratic  party.  Jim  McMinitry  hked  to 
pose  before  the  public  and  to  make  flamboyant 
speeches.  Kerr  preferred  to  sit  in  his  dingy 
real  estate  office  and  pull  the  strings  that  made 
the  puppets  dance.  To  him  speech  making 
and  posing  were  like  the  tinsel  on  a  drum  ma- 
jor's uniform.  He  cared  only  for  power,  it 
was  immaterial  to  him  how  gaudy  glory  was 
apportioned. 

"It  looks  hke  he  's  got  you  in  bad,  Dave," 
said  the  senator.  "I  don't  see  how  I  can  help 
you  this  trip." 

Kerr  slowly  set  down  his  glass  of  water  and 
straightened  up  in  his  chair,  for  he  knew  that 
the  deal  was  now  under  way.     He  had  played 

[140] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

fair  with  Jim  McMinitry  and  told  him  just 
the  exact  situation. 

**Lots  o'  things  can  happen,  Jim.  I  Ve  de- 
cided to  get  his  paper,  but  I  need  votes.  It 's 
too  close  to  election.  You  ain't  going  to  let 
him  play  you  for  a  sucker.  We  've  got  to 
clean  him,  or  he  '11  turn  on  you  just  as  he  has 
on  me." 

"I  guess  I  ought  to  wait  till  he  does,"  was 
the  cautious  response.  "I  Ve  got  enough 
troubles  without  going  out  and  lassoing  a 
young  grizzly  bear." 

"He  ain't  got  no  party,"  urged  Kerr,  "and 
you  know  how  it  happens  in  them  towns  where 
such  a  paper  gits  a  start.  He  's  got  these 
fools  in  Belmont  believing  he  's  George  Wash- 
ington come  to  life  again." 

"I  'm  sorry  for  you,  Dave,  but  honestly  I 
don't  see  where  I  can  help  out  any.  It  would 
give  me  too  black  an  eye,  because  the  boys 
here  have  set  their  hearts  on  winning  this 
time." 

Kerr  saw  that  McMinitry  was  forcing  his 

[141] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

hand,  and  he  decided  to  approach  the  situation 
from  another  side. 

"The  next  legislature  '11  elect  your  succes= 
sor,"  he  suggested. 

"I  'm  going  to  be  my  own  successor,"  as- 
serted the  senator. 

"It 's  going  to  be  a  hot  fight,"  continued 
Kerr,  unmindful  of  McMinitry's  remark. 
"The  state  will  swing  back  to  the  democrats, 
but  nobody  knows  how  the  legislature  '11  be 
on  joint  ballot." 

"It  *s  going  to  be  republican  if  I  can  have 
anything  to  say  about  it." 

"Well,  you  don't  seem  to  be  going  about  it 
very  actively,"  retorted  Kerr  with  the  nearest 
approach  to  sarcasm  he  permitted  himself  dur- 
ing the  interview.  "Even  if  the  legislature 
is  republican,  you  Ve  got  a  fight  on  your  hands. 
There  's  Congressman  Jenkinson  and  old  man 
Graham  down  in  Washington  County.  He  's 
almost  as  strong  with  the  G.  A.  R.  vote  as  you 
are,  and  his  part  of  the  state  ain't  had  no  rec- 
ognition for  a  long  time." 

McMinitry  did  not  answer  at  once.     He 

[142] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

got  up  from  the  table  and  walked  to  the  win- 
dow. When  at  last  he  turned  to  Kerr  the 
question  had  been  gone  over  thoroughly  in 
his  mind. 

"Well,  Dave,"  he  asked  with  a  smile, 
"what's  the  answer?" 

"You  've  got  to  knife  your  ticket,  so  's  these 
fool  reformers  can't  carry  Belmont." 

"What  'd  I  get  out  of  it?"  drawled  out  the 
senator. 

"Seven  votes  in  the  house  and  two  in  the  sen- 
ate." 

Again  the  republican  apostle  of  practical 
politics  sat  back  and  took  stock  of  the  situa- 
tion. Belmont  was  nothing  to  him.  It  mat- 
tered nothing  at  all  to  him  whether  the  town 
was  democratic  or  republican  as  far  as  city 
affairs  were  concerned.  Nine  votes  were  not 
to  be  despised.  He  was  cautious,  however, 
and  wanted  particulars. 

"How  you  going  to  deliver?"  he  asked. 

"We  Ve  got  that  many  to  run  this  fall  and 
I  '11  let  the  republicans  have  it  their  own  way. 
Name  your  men  now  if  you  want  to." 

[143] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"That  many  's  bound  to  make  the  legisla- 
ture republican  on  joint  ballot." 

Kerr  knew  this,  but  he  was  quite  willing  to 
change  the  political  complexion  of  the  legis- 
lature of  a  great  state,  perhaps  hamper  the 
governor  in  wise  and  necessary  legislation  and 
keep  the  state  from  having  a  democratic  sen- 
ator, all  to  hold  Belmont  for  his  own.  Mc- 
Minitry  was  no  less  willing  to  change  victory 
into  defeat  and  hand  the  city  over  to  the  rapac- 
ity of  the  Interurban  Railway  Company,  only 
to  retain  his  senatorial  office. 

"All  right,"  he  consented,  "but  you  Ve  got 
to  do  two  things :  take  care  of  some  of  the  boys 
and  muzzle  the  News.  I  can't  have  that  pa- 
per making  trouble  for  me." 

"I  '11  take  care  of  the  boys  all  right,  and 
I  Ve  told  you  what  I  'm  going  to  do — I  'm 
going  to  buy  the  News/' 

"Can  you?" 

"I  've  got  to  have  it,  and  I  don't  care  how, 
but  it 's  got  to  be  mine.'* 

"Got  any  idea?"  asked  the  senator. 

"No,  but  every  man  's  got  his  price,  Jim,  in 

[144] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

some  form  or  other."  If  he  had  had  time  for 
reflection,  David  Kerr  would  have  enjoyed 
this  remark,  since  it  was  given  a  humorous 
turn  by  the  fact  that  he  had  just  discovered 
the  price  of  the  junior  senator  from  his  own 
state. 

"I  '11  go  up  to  the  post  office  and  call  on 
some  of  the  boys,"  said  McMinitry  as  Ken- 
rose  to  go.  "I  *11  have  to  tell  Davidson  and 
Peake.  When  you  get  word  to  them  that  the 
News  is  friendly,  they  '11  pass  the  word  along. 
You  've  got  three  days ;  that  ought  to  be  plenty 
of  time,  but  you  must  have  the  paper  or  the 
deal 's  off.     Who  '11  take  it?" 

"I  don't  know  yet  who  we  '11  get  to  take  it.^' 

"I  '11  take  it." 

"Not  much,"  Kerr  replied  grimly.  "I  'm 
going  to  put  it  where  it  won't  be  no  more  trou- 
ble to  me,  and  it 's  going  to  be  rim  from  my 
office." 


10 


[145] 


CHAPTER  X 

WIEN  Gloria  Kerr  returned  from 
St.  Louis  she  found  half  a  hun- 
dred calling  cards  awaiting  her. 
The  women  she  was  anxious  to  meet  had  called 
while  she  was  out  of  town.  Those  who  de- 
layed their  visits  until  her  return  were  people 
whom  she  readily  recognized  as  being  quite  on 
the  outer  fringe  of  society.  In  them  she  was 
not  interested.  When  Gloria  went  to  return 
the  calls  of  those  whom  she  had  come  to  know 
were  regarded  as  the  first  families  of  Belmont, 
she  found  no  one  at  home. 

Somewhat  mortified,  but  making  no  con- 
fession of  her  feelings  even  to  Mrs.  Gilbert, 
Gloria  threw  herself  into  the  work  of  remod- 
eling Locust  Lawn  with  all  the  vigor  she  would 
otherwise  have  expanded  upon  social  duties. 
Her  active  superintendence  kept  her  a  good 
part  of  the  time  in  the  country,  although  she 

[146] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

still  made  her  home  with  Mrs.  Gilbert.  Some- 
times she  would  pass  the  night  at  Locust  Lawn 
out  of  a  sense  of  duty  to  her  father.  The 
evenings  spent  in  his  company  were  not  ones 
of  unalloyed  pleasure.  More  and  more  she 
was  coming  to  acknowledge  to  herself  that  her 
father  did  not,  could  not  enter  into  her  life, 
into  the  activities  which  gave  her  pleasure. 

Kerr  honestly  tried,  but  it  was  impossible. 
For  one  thing,  he  was  engaged  in  a  heated 
political  campaign,  fighting  to  retain  suprem- 
acy. Gloria,  on  her  side,  saw  that  she  had 
been  rebuffed  socially,  and  was  not  on  close 
enough  terms  of  intimacy  with  her  father  to 
tell  him  about  it.  The  girl  knew  that  he  had 
been  the  social  leader  in  Belmont,  and  she  was 
ashamed  that  she  had  not  been  able  to  win  all 
hearts  as  he  had  done. 

Gloria's  admiration  of  her  father's  powers 
did  not  lessen  upon  their  better  acquaintance. 
Strange  as  it  may  seem,  her  loyalty  to  him 
was  strengthened  by  each  turn  of  fortune's 
wheel  which  thrust  her  back  upon  herself. 
The  frivolous  veneer  in  her  nature  was  being 

[147] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

worn  away,  and  the  real  Gloria  was  beginning 
to  appear.  Kerr's  was  indeed  a  powerful  per- 
sonality, and  Gloria  was  coming  to  see  why  he 
was  so  successful.  A  woman's  intuition  and 
not  an  understanding  of  the  facts  in  the  case 
was  the  girl's  tutor.  She  hugged  to  her  heart 
the  comparison  of  Joe  Wright  and  her  father. 
In  the  younger  man  she  saw  some  of  the  traits 
which  made  her  father  a  power — magnetism, 
reserve  strength,  and  a  logical  mind.  Wright 
had  that  and  more:  he  had  all  the  social 
graces.  To  her,  however,  his  greatest  appeal 
was  that  he  was  youth,  eternal  youth,  and  love. 
What  Gloria  could  not  understand  was  why 
Wright  was  avoiding  her.  In  her  ears  she 
could  hear  him  whisper  as  he  had  that  night : 

Spring  on  the  hills,  Beloved, 

On  the  side  of  a  meadowed  slope; 

And  Love  in  our  hearts.  Beloved, 
Love  and  Spring  and  Hope. 

Now  was  spring  here,  and  hope  and  the 
promise  of  love,  but  he  did  not  come.  After 
her  return  from  St.  Louis  she  had  waited  in 
vain;     Then  she  had  asked  to  have  him  invited 

[148] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

to  dinner.  When  Mrs.  Gilbert  telephoned 
him  he  refused  owing  to  press  of  business,  but 
asked  to  speak  to  Gloria.  She  came  to  the 
telephone  and  they  had  a  pleasant  chat.  He 
told  her  that  he  was  busy  finishing  some  maga- 
zine articles  which  the  editor  was  pressing  him 
for,  and  that  he  was  working  night  and  day. 
For  the  time  being  Gloria  accepted  this  expla- 
nation. The  day  of  their  telephone  conversa- 
tion there  came  from  him  a  box  of  red  roses  at 
the  dinner  hour. 

It  must  not  be  thought  that  Gloria  was  en- 
tirely cut  off  from  society.  It  was  the  society 
she  craved,  the  intimate  association  with  cer- 
tain ones,  which  she  was  not  finding.  To  all 
the  formal  functions  Gloria  was  in\ated,  but 
she  no  longer  cared  for  big  balls  as  formerly. 
Her  dances  were  all  taken,  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  atmosphere  which  dampened  her 
spirits.  Although  every  one  was  superficially 
pleasant,  there  was  no  cordiality  in  it  all.  So 
she  busied  herself  more  and  more  with  remod- 
eling her  country  home. 

One  day  at  Locust  Lawn  a  man  engaged 
[149] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

in  digging  the  foundation  for  the  new  porch 
touched  his  hat  and  called  Mrs.  Hayes  by 
name.  She  stopped  to  talk  to  him  and  be- 
trayed a  knowledge  of  his  family  affairs  which 
astonished  Gloria.  After  they  had  passed, 
the  girl  questioned  her  about  the  workman 
and  how  she  came  to  know  him. 

"His  wife  came  to  the  mission  for  help  last 
winter  when  he  was  sick,"  Mrs.  Hayes  ex- 
plained. 

Gloria  looked  at  the  man  in  the  trench,  bend- 
ing his  back  in  pain  that  she  might  have  a  place 
to  serve  tea  in  the  afternoon  and  loll  in  a 
swinging  seat  in  the  moonlight.  He  was  but 
a  unit  out  of  those  teeming  millions  of  units  to 
whose  very  existence  she  had  always  been  in- 
different. Had  she  been  told  in  other  days 
that  this  man's  family  had  almost  died  of  want 
she  would  have  let  it  stay  in  her  mind  no  longer 
than  the  news  that  a  hundred  poor  girls  had 
been  burned  to  death  in  a  fire  trap  a  bribed  fac- 
tory inspector  had  branded  as  safe.  In  other 
words,  she  would  not  have  considered  the  mat- 
ter at  all.     To  have  dominion  over  palm  and 

[150] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

pine  to  Gloria  meant  only  that  from  these  lands 
should  be  gathered  the  best  there  was  for  the 
lords  of  the  earth.  And  of  that  order  she 
knew  herself  to  be  one. 

Sin  and  suffering  were  familiar  to  her  in 
the  abstract,  sodden  wretches  she  had  seen  in- 
vade even  Fifth  Avenue,  but  that  back  of  all 
were  stories  of  weaknesses,  misfortimes,  op- 
pression, inhuman  exploitation,  and  man's  in- 
humanity to  man  she  had  not  considered.  She 
believed  they  were  born  into  their  caste  just  as 
she  was  born  into  hers. 

Now  as  she  listened  to  this  workman  talk, 
heard  his  story  from  Mrs.  Hayes,  learned  that 
he  had  little  children  dependent  upon  him  just 
as  she  had  been  dependent  upon  her  father  be- 
fore he  had  made  a  settlement  upon  her,  mak- 
ing her  independent,  Gloria  began  to  realize 
that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  the  fellowship 
of  man.  She  was  not  uncharitable.  When- 
ever any  appeal  had  been  made  to  her  she  had 
always  emptied  her  pocketbook  thought- 
lessly and  considered  her  duty  done.  Now  the 
thought  of  personal  service  came  to  her.     She 

[151] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

was  ignorant  of  what  she  could  do,  even  of  its 
power  to  bring  her  any  measure  of  happiness, 
but  it  was  worth  trying. 

They  had  driven  in  silence  almost  to  town 
before  Gloria  turned  to  Mrs.  Hayes  and  said: 

"Mrs.  Hayes,  the  next  time  you  go  to  the 
mission  I  want  you  to  take  me." 

Several  days  later  Gloria  went  with  Mrs. 
Hayes  to  view  at  close  range  the  work  being 
done  in  the  poorer  quarters  of  Belmont  by  the 
Presbyterian  Mission.  She  met  Mrs.  Wal- 
lace, the  matron,  and  from  her  learned  the 
story  of  the  humble  but  unfortunate  toilers, 
and  the  evils  to  which  they  were  constantly  a 
prey  through  their  ignorance  and  inability  to 
protect  themselves.  Gloria  then  accompanied 
her  on  a  round  of  visits,  and  soon  the  girl's  in- 
terest was  such  that  on  the  days  Mrs.  Hayes 
went  to  the  mission  she  was  glad  to  go  with 
her. 

The  boss  was  disturbed  at  his  daughter's 
trips  into  the  lowest  quarters  of  Belmont. 

"This  ain't  no  kind  o'  play,  girl,"  he  com- 
plained.    "Why  don't  you  stick  to  society?" 

[152] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"Society!"  she  replied  with  fine  scorn. 
"Whj^  doesn't  society  stick  to  me  I" 

"What 's  the  matter?" 

He  had  been  quick  to  catch  the  note  of  un- 
happiness.  His  daughter  had  not  meant  to 
say  anything,  but  the  words  had  slipped  out 
before  she  could  think.  She  now  tried  to  erase 
the  impression  by  saying: 

"Matter?     Nothing.     Why?" 

The  boss's  suspicions  were  not  to  be  so 
lulled. 

"You  're  keepin'  somethin'  back  from  me, 
Gloria.     What  is  it?" 

"No,  I  'm  not,"  she  insisted. 

"Has  any  one  done  anythin'  or  said  any  thin' 
to  you?" 

"Nothing." 

"But  somethin  's  back  o'  all  this.  You  ain't 
happy.  Any  body  can  see  that.  Now  what 's 
it  all  about?"  He  waited  for  her  to  reply,  but 
she  would  not  speak.     "Can't  you  answer?" 

Forced  into  a  corner,  unable  to  turn  the  con- 
versation, Gloria  saw  no  way  of  escape,  and 
finally  stammered: 

[1531 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"It 's — it 's — ^well — it  *s  just  an  atmos- 
phere." 

"You  go  every  place." 

*'To  all  the  big  things,  yes." 

"People  are  nice  to  you." 

She  hesitated,  but  finally  said,  "Ye-es." 

"Ain't  they?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  she  admitted  in  a  life- 
less manner.  "Perhaps  I  'm  not  used  to  west- 
ern ways,  yet  the  nice  people  look  just  like  nice 
people  look  back  East." 

"What 's  different  then?" 

"They  seem  to  keep  me  at  arm's  length.  I 
don't  see  why.  You  're  the  biggest  man  in 
Belmont,  and  yet  I — "  She  did  not  finish  the 
sentence. 

"Yet— I— what?"  he  urged. 

"I  don't  understand,  that 's  all." 

"Who,  for  instance?" 

Gloria  thought  for  a  moment,  and  resolved 
only  to  name  persons  in  a  general  way. 

"Well,  Letty  Loomis." 

"Old  John  Loomis's  daughter?" 

"Is  he  the  big  wholesale  grocer?" 

[154] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"That 's  him.     What  'd  she  do?" 

"I  tell  you — she  did  n't  do  anything.  It 's 
just — an  atmosphere." 

"Huh !  A  beautiful  lot  o'  airs  she  's  got  a 
right  to  put  on,"  snorted  the  boss.  *'D'  you 
know  how  old  Loomis  made  his  money?" 

"Out  of  groceries,  did  n't  he?" 

"Groceries,  nothin'.  That 's  just  a  stall. 
He  's  got  a  warehouse  chuck  full  of  rotten 
whisky  he  sells  in  prohibition  Kansas.  That 's 
his  real  business.  He  don't  sell  enough  gro- 
ceries in  a  year  to  feed  a  first  class  boardin' 
house.  I  would  n't  let  him  sell  anj'^thing  to  the 
poor  farm.  Don't  let  that  girl  o'  his  put  it 
over  you  any.  And  they  say  he  passes  the 
plate  in  church!  Gad,  I  hate  a  hypocrite. 
I  '11  make  him  sweat  for  it." 

Her  father  was  so  wrought  up  that  Gloria 
was  afraid  to  speak  further,  but  when  he  in- 
sisted she  told  of  several  instances  of  which  she 
had  been  pleased  to  term  antagonistic  atmos- 
phere, and  in  each  case  Kerr  related  some 
disgraceful  characteristic  of  the  head  of  the 
family.     Once  he  did  not  hesitate  to  give  his 

[155] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

opinion  of  a  society  woman  whose  history  he 
knew  well.  This  intimate  knowledge  of  Bel- 
mont affairs  and  his  belittling  references  to 
leading  citizens  made  Gloria  reach  the  conclu- 
sion that  in  some  way  he  was  in  a  class  by 
himself.  This  caused  her  to  soothe  him  with 
the  remark: 

"Father,  I  think  they're  jealous  because 
you  're  head  and  shoulders  above  them  all." 

She  might  not  love  him,  but  her  pride  in  him 
and  her  loyalty  to  him  were  all  the  greater  for 
the  lack  of  love.  She  felt  that  she  was  at  fault 
for  not  having  that  true  filial  regard  which 
other  daughters  had  for  their  fathers,  and 
therefore  whenever  she  could  she  strengthened 
her  faith  in  him  as  Belmont's  leading  citizen. 
She  was  proud  to  be  his  daughter. 


[156] 


CHAPTER  XI 

ON"  the  day  of  his  interview  with  Mc- 
Minitry  Kerr  had  asked  Kendall  and 
Dr.  Hayes  to  meet  him  at  Judge  Gil- 
bert's office  directly  after  luncheon.  At  this 
conference  he  intended  to  tell  them  they  would 
have  to  acquire  the  News.  The  transfer  of 
the  property  need  not  be  made  until  after  the 
election,  but  he  wanted  to  know  at  once  that 
it  was  his. 

The  boss  was  late,  and  the  three  men  had  to 
wait  some  time  for  him. 

"I  would  n't  want  the  boys  to  know  it,"  said 
Gilbert  disconsolately,  "but  I  'm  afraid  he  's 
got  us  beat." 

Kendall  was  hopeful  still. 

"It 's  three  days  till  election,"  he  urged. 
"Anything  can  happen  in  that  time." 

"I  wish  I  believed  in  miracles  like  you  do," 
was  Dr.  Hayes's  rueful  comment. 

[157] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Only  a  miracle  can  save  us,"  added  Judge 
Gilbert  gloomily. 

*'I  tell  you,  gentlemen,"  insisted  Kendall, 
"I  still  think  Dave  Kerr  can  swing  it." 

"All  the  same,"  answered  the  coroner,  "when 
I  went  out  to  stick  my  good  money  in  real  es- 
tate options  on  factory  sites  I  wish  I  'd  been 
riding  Balaam's  ass." 

The  others'  laugh  at  his  expense  was  cut 
short  by  the  entrance  of  David  Kerr. 

"How  's  it  look,  Mr.  Kerr?"  asked  Gilbert. 

"It  might  be  worse,"  was  the  reply.  "We 
count  the  votes,  don't  we?'* 

Gilbert  was  not  optimistic. 

"I  'm  afraid  it  is  n't  going  to  be  that  close." 

"Have  you  heard  anything  from  the  elev- 
enth?" queried  Kendall. 

"I  had  a  talk  with  Sweeney  this  morning, 
and  he  said  he  could  put  enough  stock-yards 
people  in  the  'leventh  to  dehver  the  ward  all 
right.  Bauernschmidt  was  in  my  office  at  the 
same  time.     He 's  up  against  it  in  the  sixth." 

"Then  we  can't  count  on  much  outside  the 
river  wards,"  said  Kendall. 

[158] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

Kerr  nodded  his  head.  He  could  have 
added  that  the  river  ward  men  would  vote  early 
and  often,  but  that  there  was  no  occasion  for 
it.  It  was  an  open  secret  that  for  several 
weeks  floaters  had  been  colonized  in  the  levee 
district. 

"We  can't  count  on  much  besides  them 
wards,"  explained  Kerr,  "unless  the  Belmont 
News  goes  out  of  business." 

"What  can  we  do  about  it?"  inquired 
Hayes.  He  saw  defeat  staring  them  in  the 
face. 

"Sam,"  replied  the  boss  after  a  moment's 
silence,  "every  man  's  got  his  price — in  some 
form  or  other." 

''News  or  no  News,  we  've  got  to  win,"  ex- 
claimed Kendall  desperately.  "I  've  staked 
everything  on  it  in  Chicago  and  I  must  get  re- 
sults— and  that  means  a  franchise  and  nothing 
but  a  franchise." 

"Then  we  've  got  to  have  that  paper  at  any 
cost." 

"It 's  mortgaged  for  all  it 's  worth,"  said 
GHbert. 

[159] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"That  won't  help  us  in  the  next  three  days," 
snapped  Kendall. 

"There  ain't  no  use  mincing  matters,"  con- 
cluded the  boss.  "We  're  up  against  it. 
There  's  only  one  thing  to  do ;  see  what  he  '11 
sell  for,  and  pay  him  his  price." 

Judge  Gilbert  looked  at  the  matter  from 
the  point  of  view  of  a  business  lawyer. 

"It  won't  be  cash  down  for  the  whole  thing. 
We  merely  assume  the  mortgage,  and  then  pay 
him  whatever  he  '11  take  to  clear  out." 

Kerr  had  figured  all  this  out.  With  him 
time  was  the  most  important  consideration. 

"We  've  got  to  get  busy  mighty  quick,"  said 
the  boss. 

"When  are  you  going  to  see  him?"  asked 
Kendall. 

"Right  away." 

"We  can't  very  well  go  to  his  office,"  said 
Gilbert.  "Even  that  little  move  would  give 
him  more  of  an  advantage." 

"Get  him  over  here,"  ordered  Kerr.  "Tele- 
phone him.  He  '11  come.  You  need  n't  say 
who  's  here." 

[160] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

Judge  Gilbert  picked  up  the  telephone  on 
the  table  and  asked  Williams,  his  secretary, 
who  sat  in  the  outer  office,  to  get  Mr.  Wright 
at  the  Belmont  News  on  the  line  for  him. 

Judge  Gilbert's  offices  consisted  of  an  outer 
room  where  sat  his  secretary;  within,  where 
Kerr  and  his  lieutenants  were  in  conference, 
was  the  library,  a  large  room  looking  out  on 
the  main  thoroughfare  of  Belmont;  and  from 
this,  opposite  the  outer  reception  room,  there 
opened  two  smaller  rooms,  one  of  which  Gil- 
bert used  as  his  private  office,  the  other  as  a 
room  for  consultations. 

When  Gilbert  finished  telephoning,  he  said, 
"He  's  busy  going  over  the  proofs  of  some  late 
stuff  for  this  afternoon's  paper,  but  he  '11  be 
over  in  half  an  hour  or  so." 


11 


[161] 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHEN  Gloria  found  that  the  Pres- 
byterian Mission  was  in  need  of 
money  in  order  to  extend  its  work, 
she  suggested  to  Mrs.  Hayes  that  they  go 
among  their  friends,  explain  the  situation  and 
ask  money  for  their  charity.  One  of  the  first 
upon  whom  they  called  was  Judge  Gilbert. 
Williams  explained  that  the  judge  was  busy 
for  a  few  minutes  and  asked  them  to  be  seated. 
He  did  not  know  if  the  men  cared  to  be  both- 
ered with  mere  women  on  such  a  day. 

When  Williams  announced  that  Miss  Kerr 
and  Mrs.  Hayes  wished  to  see  him,  Judge  Gil- 
bert asked  Kerr  if  he  knew  the  meaning  of  the 
visit. 

"They  got  some  sort  o'  mission  work  they  're 
beggin'  for.     It 's  just  a  polite  shake  down." 
"I  did  n't  know  she  had  taken  it  up  that  seri- 
[162] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

ously.  I  just  thought  she  went  down  with 
Mrs.  Hayes  out  of  curiosity." 

"Women  is  queer  creatures,  Amos.  Glo- 
ria 's  spendin'  lots  of  her  time  with  Sam's  wife 
savin'  souls.  You  *re  in  for  it.  She  got  me  to 
subscribe  a  hundred  dollars.  Wanted  my 
name  to  head  the  list.  I  told  her  to  put  me 
down  as  Cheerful  Giver.  Said  I  was  castin' 
bread  on  the  water  without  any  hope  o'  gittin' 
it  back.  Them  mission  things  is  usually 
fakes." 

The  boss's  further  opinion  concerning  settle- 
ment work  was  not  voiced  because,  while  Kerr 
was  talking,  Judge  Gilbert  had  telephoned 
Williams  to  usher  Mrs.  Hayes  and  Miss  Kerr 
into  the  library. 

Followed  by  the  other  men,  Gilbert  advanced 
to  meet  them,  and  after  the  usual  greetings 
had  been  exchanged,  offered  them  chairs. 

"You  must  pardon  us,"  began  Mrs.  Hayes. 
"We  did  not  expect  to  find  you  so  busy.  To 
tell  the  truth,  we  did  n't  expect  to  find  two 
persons  here  whom  we  have  already  visited." 
She  looked  at  Kerr  and  her  husband. 

[163] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"I  'm  the  Cheerful  Giver,"  said  Kerr  with  a 
humorous  grimace  which  pretended  to  show 
that  the  donation  was  not  so  cheerfully  parted 
with. 

"I  *m  not  so  cheerful,  but  I  was  a  giver," 
added  Dr.  Hayes. 

"I  told  Judge  Gilbert  to  lock  the  safe,  that 
I  knew  you  would  be  after  money,"  Kerr  con- 
tinued. 

"Highway  robbers,  I  call  them,"  was  Dr. 
Hayes*s  testimony  this  time. 

"A  bad  reputation  they  Ve  given  us,  Judge 
Gilbert,"  laughed  Gloria,  "and  we  don't  de- 
serve it,  indeed  we  don't." 

Kerr  walked  into  the  private  office  and  Gil- 
bert, catching  his  eye,  followed  him.  The  boss 
said  something;  Gilbert  looked  at  the  women 
and  then  nodded  his  head  in  assent.  Dr. 
Hayes,  also  catching  the  boss's  eye,  strolled 
away  from  the  group  casually  as  the  judge  re- 
joined it.  A  word  with  him  was  all  that  Kerr 
required.  The  master  of  Locust  La^\Ti  was 
setting  the  stage  with  an  eye  that  overlooked  no 
detail.     There  was  too  much  at  stake  for  him 

[164] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

to  neglect  to  interpolate  anything  eiFective 
which  chance  might  throw  in  his  way. 

As  the  two  men  walked  back  into  the  library, 
Mrs.  Hayes  was  saying: 

*'Dr.  Hayes  and  I  have  had  quite  an  argu- 
ment, and  here  are  the  lawyers,  Gloria,  who 
can  settle  the  question  for  us.  Can  a  woman 
steal  from  her  husband,  Mr.  Kendall?" 

Kendall  knitted  his  brows  in  perplexity. 
"Really,  Mrs.  Hayes,  that  is  a  question  I  shall 
have  to  take  under  advisement." 

"But  a  man  can  steal  from  his  wife,"  Gloria 
put  in.  There  was  a  general  laugh  at  this 
which  she  did  not  relish.  "I  'm  talking  seri- 
ously. If  it  were  n't  so,  we  might  n't  be  here 
begging  money." 

"So  you  are  after  money,"  said  Judge  Gil- 
bert lightly.  "Then  you  must  tell  me  why  I 
should  contribute  to  keep  men  from  stealing 
from  their  wives,  you  who  have  no  one  to  steal 
from  you." 

Gloria  was  not  to  be  diverted  from  what  she 
had  to  say.  These  men  to  whom  she  was  talk- 
ing represented  to  her  what  was  best  in  Bel- 

[165] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

mont,  what  was  best  in  manhood.     She  wished 
them  to  see  the  truth  as  she  saw  it. 

"It  is  n't  that  kind  of  stealing,"  she  went  on; 
"it 's  worse  than  that.  Till  I  went  with  Mrs. 
Hayes  to  visit  the  mission  I  had  no  idea  of  the 
degradation  and  misery  in  a  town  even  like 
Belmont.  When  I  say  men  steal  from  their 
wives  I  mean  they  take  the  money  they  should 
spend  on  their  families  and  spend  it  for  whisky 
and  gambhng. 

"I  think  it 's  a  shame  that  such  men  as  you, 
Judge  Gilbert,  and  you.  Dr.  Hayes,  and  you, 
Father,  of  all  persons,  permit  such  things  to 
happen  here  in  Belmont.  I  wish  I  were  a 
man!" 

"You  can't  keep  people  from  spending  their 
money,"  said  Kerr,  as  he  looked  at  his  watch. 

Dr.  Hayes  caught  the  slight  nod  the  boss 
gave,  and  said  something  to  his  wife.  Then, 
interrupting  the  discussion,  he  said  to  Gloria: 

"I  'm  already  on  the  list  of  cheerful  givers. 
Miss  Kerr,  and  I  'm  going  to  ask  if  you  '11  let 
me  carry  off  Mrs.  Hayes  for  half  an  hour  or 
so." 

[166] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"But  I  'm  only  assisting  her,"  she  replied  in 
surprise. 

"You  can  tell  Judge  Gilbert  about  it  even 
better  than  she  can.  I  know  how  it  is  when 
married  ladies  come  to  my  office  and  when  un- 
married ladies  come." 

"Yes,"  laughed  his  wife,  "he  keeps  me  poor, 
contributing  to  things  that  are  none  of  our  bus- 
iness just  because  pretty  girls  come  in  and 
he  can't  refuse  them.  Dr.  Hayes  says  we 
won't  be  long,  Gloria,  You  don't  mind,  do 
you?" 

"Of  course  not.     Where  shall  I  meet  you?" 

"We  '11  come  back  here." 

Gloria  turned  from  saying  good-by  to  Mrs. 
Hayes  to  find  only  her  father  in  the  room  with 
her.  Kendall  and  Judge  Gilbert  had  with- 
drawn to  the  latter's  private  office. 

"Where 's  Joe  Wright  been  keepin'  him- 
self?" asked  Kerr  suddenly. 

The  girl  did  not  betray  the  slightest  interest 
in  the  question.  She  took  her  time  about  an- 
swering, and  when  she  spoke  it  was  in  the  most 
nonchalant  manner. 

[167] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Mr.  Wright?     Oh,  he  's  in  Behnont." 

"You  don't  go  with  him  hke  you  used  to. 
He  ain't  been  to  Locust  Lawn  once." 

"He  says  he  's  busy  when  I  see  him.  I  meet 
him  occasionally." 

"I  thought  you  and  him  was  good  friends." 

"Oh,  we  are." 

Although  she  answered  his  questions  in  an 
off-hand  manner,  her  father  was  not  deceived. 
From  what  he  had  been  told  and  also  from 
what  he  had  observed,  he  felt  that  his  daughter 
had  a  genuine  regard  for  the  owner  of  the  Bel- 
mont News,  Of  its  depth  he  could  not  de- 
cide. 

"He  ain*t  been  near  you  for  a  long  time." 

"I  'm  not  bothering  about  him.  I  'm  not 
bothering  particularly  about  any  one." 

The  girl  was  glad  that  at  this  moment  Judge 
Gilbert  came  from  his  private  office.  Her  fa- 
ther was  questioning  her  about  matters  she  pre- 
ferred to  keep  to  herself. 

"If  Miss  Gloria  can  spare  you,  Mr.  Kerr," 
said  the  judge,  "Mr.  Kendall  would  like  to 
see  you  in  my  office.     I  've  come  back  to  be 

[168] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

persuaded  that  I  ought  to  join  the  cheerful 
givers." 

"I  '11  tell  Kendall,  Gloria,  that  he  's  got  to 
join  the  lodge,"  were  Kerr's  parting  words  as 
he  went  into  the  inner  office. 

Remembering  that  Miss  Kerr  had  not  been 
given  the  chance  to  explain  her  visit  fully, 
Judge  Gilbert  took  a  chair  beside  her  and 
said: 

"Now  I  'm  at  your  service,  prepared  to  be- 
lieve the  most  terrible  things  about  our  fair 
Belmont." 

"When  you  talk  like  that,  Judge  Gilbert, 
I  'm  afraid  j'^ou  're  laughing  at  me.'* 

Of  late  Gloria's  seriousness  had  far  out- 
weighed her  old  mood  of  joyousness,  and  she 
now  insisted  on  being  taken  seriously. 

"You  've  lectured  me  so  for  being  shocked 
at  what  I  've  found  that  I  'm  afraid  to  say  any 
more." 

Judge  Gilbert  was  seeking  in  his  mind  for 
sonie  plausible  reason  to  advance  which  would 
be  sufficient  to  remove  Gloria  from  the  work 
she  had  undertaken,  when  Williams  entered. 

[169] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  secretary, 
"but  Mr.  Wright  is  here." 

"Mr.  Wright!"  exclaimed  Gloria.  She  al- 
most rose  from  her  seat,  but  feehng  the  eyes 
of  the  lawyer  upon  her,  sank  back  again  and 
tried  to  appear  quite  at  her  ease. 

"Tell  him  I  '11  see  him  in  a  minute." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Williams  went  out,  and  left  Gloria  feeling 
as  if  she  were  on  the  stand,  a  witness  in  her 
own  defense.  She  was  provoked  because  she 
knew  the  attorney  had  heard  her  exclamation. 
Something  within  her  made  her  wish  to  rush 
away.  But  this  wish  in  an  instant  gave  place 
to  one  more  ardent.  She  would  see  him,  speak 
to  him,  learn  the  truth  from  his  own  lips  if  he 
were  man  enough  to  speak,  and  then  go  away 
forever.  Deep  down  in  her  heart,  however,  she 
heard  a  whisper  out  of  the  leaves  of  their  "birth- 
day book,"  words  he  had  whispered : 

Spring  in  the  hills,  Beloved, 

On  the  side  of  a  meadowed  slope; 

And  Love  in  our  hearts.  Beloved, 
Love  and  Spring  and  Hope. 

[170] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WJIIGHT  had  no  means  of  knowing 
what  it  was  Judge  Gilbert  had  to 
propose  to  him,  but  he  felt  certain 
that  it  had  some  connection  with  his  newspaper 
and  with  the  campaign  now  ending  in  a  lurid 
blaze  of  political  pyrotechnics.  Gloria  Kerr 
was  the  last  person  he  would  have  thought  of 
meeting  in  Gilbert's  office.  He  had  promised 
himself  that  after  the  election,  no  matter 
whether  it  went  his  way  or  not,  he  would  see 
her  and  make  his  excuses  for  not  having  had 
the  time  to  be  with  her  as  he  had  wished.  He 
would  also  begin  to  look  about  for  a  purchaser 
for  the  News.  He  hoped  he  would  have  no 
difficulty  in  getting  Gloria  to  leave  Belmont. 
Then  for  the  new  life  with  her  where  they 
could  be  ever  together,  one  in  heart  and  hope 
and  happiness. 

When  Williams  told  Wright  that  Judge  Gil- 
[171] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

bert  was  ready  to  see  him,  he  opened  the  door 
and  saw  the  lawyer  advancing  to  meet  him  Tvith 
extended  hand.  The  adviser  of  Beknont  cor- 
porations knew  the  value  of  a  hand-shake  and 
a  cordial  greeting.  It  made  a  visit  to  his  office 
take  on  the  air  of  a  social  affair. 

"I  'm  so  glad  you  came,"  he  said  to  the  ed- 
itor, shaking  hands  heartily. 

"I  came  as  soon  as  I  could."  Wright  was 
not  going  to  be  outdone,  and  therefore  used 
his  most  genial  tone,  although  the  shaking 
hands  on  his  side  was  a  perfunctory  perform- 
ance. He  knew  Judge  Gilbert's  real  attitude, 
and  undue  cordiality  under  the  circumstances 
savored  too  much  of  the  Greeks  bearing  gifts. 

"Miss  Kerr  and  I  have  just  been  speaking 
of  you." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Wright.  Looking  past 
the  judge,  for  the  first  time  he  saw  Gloria. 
At  mention  of  her  name  the  girl  rose  from  her 
chair.  She  really  thought  she  merely  wanted 
to  speak  to  him,  once  more  look  into  his  eyes, 
and  then  take  her  departure. 

At  sight  of  her,  Wright  stepped  forward 

[172] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

and  said,  "How  do  you  do,  Miss  Kerr?  It's 
a  great  pleasure  to  see  you.  I  certainly  did 
not  expect  to  find  you  here." 

They  shook  hands  in  rather  a  constrained 
manner,  Gilbert  watching  them  closely  the 
while. 

"Naturally  not,"  she  replied.  "I  came  to  see 
Judge  Gilbert  on  a  matter  of  business  and  am 
just  leaving."  Despite  herself  she  could  not 
help  adding,  "My  friends  find  me  most  of  the 
time  at  Locust  Lawn." 

Something  in  her  manner  brought  the  lawyer 
at  once  into  the  conversation  with  a  turning  of 
the  subject. 

"I  couldn't  tell  you  very  well  over  the 
'phone  what  I  wanted,"  he  explained  to 
Wright.  "It  '11  be  a  little  while  before  I  can 
talk  to  you.  I  need  a  few  minutes  more  to 
ascertain  fully  the  wishes  of  my  clients." 

The  conversation  was  so  business-hke  that 
Gloria  forced  herself  to  say: 

"I  must  be  going.  Please  don't  let  me  keep 
you  from  your  work." 

But  at  this  Gilbert  held  up  his  hand  appeal- 
[173] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

ingly  and  begged,  "Please  don't  go.  I  want 
you  to  do  me  a  favor.  Wait  for  Mrs.  Hayes. 
Until  I  've  finished  this  conference,  won't  you 
be  so  good  as  to  act  as  hostess  here  and  enter- 
tain Mr.  Wright?" 

"Really,  Judge  Gilbert,  I— » 

"I  'm  sure  Mr.  Wright  wishes  it."  He  in- 
terrupted her  because  he  did  not  know  what 
she  might  say,  and  he  knew  his  remark  would 
bring  from  the  newspaper  man  a  request  that 
she  remain. 

"I  would  n't  have  Miss  Kerr  make  a  martyr 
of  herself,"  Wright  said  with  quiet  dignity, 
"but  if  she  would  be  so  kind — " 

"Did  n't  I  tell  you,"  the  judge  said  to  the 
girl.  "Not  a  word.  You  must  take  my  place 
until  I  return.  If  you  '11  pardon  me,  I  '11  be 
with  you  again  in  just  a  few  minutes." 

There  was  no  time  for  them  to  protest.  He 
slipped  into  the  office  where  Kendall  and  Kerr 
were  closeted,  and  closed  the  door  quietly  after 
him. 

The  situation  was  not  without  its  embarrass- 
ment.    Taking  into  consideration  everything 

[174] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

which  had  happened  in  the  last  month, 
there  was  little  wonder  that  each  felt  con- 
strained. In  addition  to  that,  Gloria  felt  as 
if  she  had  just  been  figuratively  thrown  at  his 
head.  To  a  high-spirited  girl  this  in  itself 
was  mortifying.  They  sat  without  a  word  un- 
til the  silence  became  painful.  Wright  was 
desperate.  Here  was  the  one  woman  in  all 
the  world,  and  he  was  afraid  to  open  his  mouth. 
At  last  he  mustered  sufficient  courage  to  re- 
mark: 

"Beautiful  spring  weather  we  're  having." 

This  remark  served  only  to  punctuate  the 
silence.  It  seemed  to  him,  from  the  length  of 
time  before  she  replied,  that  Gloria  was  men- 
tally inspecting  the  records  of  the  weather  bu- 
reau for  the  last  twenty  years. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  a  word  that  did  not  appear 
so  ponderous  as  to  require  all  that  time  to 
bringing  it  forth. 

This  did  not  prove  conducive  to  further  con- 
versation. He  felt  that  the  weather  had  not 
been  exhausted  by  her  voluble  reply,  however, 
and  used  it  again. 

[175] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"They  tell  me  it 's  liable  to  be  bad  for  an- 
other month." 

Again  Gloria  seemed  to  make  a  mental  sur- 
vey of  all  the  weather  records  of  the  last  twenty 
years.  Wright  had  almost  forgotten  what  he 
had  said  when  she  at  last  gave  the  conversa- 
tional football  a  dainty  kick  by  saying: 

"Yes." 

This  time  he  was  ready  for  her.  His  em- 
barrassment was  wearing  off  and  he  began 
again  promptly: 

"Don't  the  rains  make  the  road  pretty  bad 
out  your  way?" 

"My  friends  manage  to  get  out  to  see  me." 

This  was  a  chill  rejoinder,  and  Wright  felt 
he  had  lost  several  points  in  their  game  of 
indirection. 

"Locust  Lawn  is  quite  a  distance  out,"  he 
ventured. 

"Not  far  enough  to  discourage  my  friends." 

This  goaded  him  to  an  apology.  He  re- 
gretted that  she  was  not  making  it  easy  for 
him,  but  he  forgave  her  because  he  knew  she 
did  not  understand. 

[176] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"Because  I  've  been  so  busy,  please  don't 
think  that  I  'm  discouraged." 

"Why  should  I  think  of  it  at  all?"  she  re- 
plied with  spirit. 

Her  remark  hurt  him,  both  her  words  and 
her  manner  of  speech.  It  tore  away  his  reserve 
and  made  him  burst  forth  in  protest. 

"That 's  not  like  you,  Gloria.  We  Ve  been 
such  good  friends." 

"We  have  been  good  friends,"  she  admitted 
promptly.  "Is  there  any  reason,  Joe,  why  we 
should  not  be  now?" 

His  heart  beat  high  within  him  at  her  words. 
They  were  so  direct,  so  honest,  so  like  the  one 
woman  of  his  dreams.  It  grieved  him  that  he 
could  not  be  as  direct  with  her;  but  that  was 
impossible,  for  over  them  was  the  sinister 
shadow  of  David  Kerr,  her  father,  the  boss  of 
Belmont. 

"There  's  no  reason  why  we  should  n't  be 
good  friends,  Gloria.  What  put  that  idea  into 
your  head?" 

"My  circle  of  friends  in  Belmont  seems  to 

have  grown  smaller  and  smaller." 
12  [177] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Please  don't  put  me  on  the  outside." 
"You  seem  to  have  put  yourself  there." 
The  conversation  lagged.  There  was  so 
much  to  think  about.  Gloria  was  seeking  to 
reconcile  his  explanations  with  her  own  obser- 
vations. Looking  at  him  closely  she  saw  that 
he  did  not  have  that  fresh,  robust  look  which  a 
month  ago  had  made  him  seem  fit  for  a  gladi- 
atorial contest.  As  he  sat  in  the  big  office 
chair  he  seemed  to  relax  with  fatigue.  His 
face  was  thinner,  and  there  were  little 
lines  of  worry  about  his  eyes.  Between  his 
brows  and  on  either  side  his  mouth  were  to  be 
seen  creases  which  the  girl  thought  proclaimed 
to  the  world  his  strength  of  character.  A 
month  ago  she  had  not  noticed  them.  She  had 
felt  he  was  such  a  man,  but  the  wrinkles,  con- 
firming her  belief,  could  almost  be  called  a 
source  of  joy  to  her.  They  had  made  away 
with  some  of  the  youthfulness,  but  in  his  face 
she  now  saw  something  which  m  .3  than  com- 
pensated. It  had  greater  s- .  cngth  now, 
strength  such  as  was  written  or  ler  father's 
countenance. 

[1781 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"You  look  tired."  Her  low,  sympathetic 
tones  and  her  solicitous  look  did  what  nothing 
else  could  do.  They  melted  his  stern  purpose 
to  bear  it  all  in  silence  for  yet  a  few  days  into 
a  desire  to  take  her  as  much  as  he  dared  into 
his  confidence.  With  a  woman's  quick  per- 
ception she  would  understand  that  he  was  un- 
happy. Her  sympathy  and  her  confidence  in 
him  would  nerve  him  to  fight  the  good  fight  as 
nothing  else  could  and  his  heart  was  stirred  by 
the  possibility. 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  "I  'm  tired  and  sick  at 
heart." 

"Why  don't  you  take  a  vacation?  Go  to 
Europe." 

"I  can't  pick  up  and  run  away  like  that;  but 
I  'd  do  it  anyway  if  it  would  bring  back  the 
dear  old  days." 

"The  days  I  knew?"  the  girl  made  bold  to 
ask. 

"The  days  you  made  so — delightful." 

"Can  they  be  gone  forever?" 

"You  mean — "  Wright  did  not  dare  to  put 
his  hope  in  words. 

[179] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

Carried  farther  than  she  had  intended,  Glo- 
ria beat  a  retreat  by  saying : 

"Who  knows  ?  We  may  meet  in  Paris  again 
some  day." 

"Some  time  soon,  I  hope.  I  'm  sick  and 
tired  of  it  all  here,  Gloria.  Today  it  has 
seemed  like  the  game  is  n't  worth  the  candle. 
What  do  you  think?" 

"I  'm  all  in  the  dark,  too,"  was  her  confes- 
sion.  Slowly  and  surely  in  the  shadow  of  her 
shattered  hopes  and  his  unhappy  conflict  of 
duty  and  desire  were  they  being  drawn  closer 
together  than  ever  they  had  been  when  they 
laughed  with  the  spring  and  dreamed  of  the 
days  to  come  in  a  radiant  sunshine  of  unwhis- 
pered  love. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  Gloria  went 
on  in  a  low  tone.  "I  don't  seem  to  understand 
Belmont." 

"Why  don't  you  go  away?  Don't  you  want 
to?" 

"What  for?  I  know  the  life  out  there." 
She  made  a  sweeping  gesture  which  seemed  to 
encompass  all  the  world  outside  the  four  walls 

[180] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

which  shut  them  in  together.  "It  wouldn't 
really  satisfy  me  any  more — to  live  as  I  used 
to  live." 

"Yet  your  life  here—"  He  left  the  rest  to 
her. 

"No,  this  does  n't  satisfy  me  either." 

"In  a  word,  Gloria,  you  're  not  happy.'* 

Instead  of  replying  directly,  she  asked  with 
a  dropping  of  her  hands  to  her  sides  in  a  hope- 
less fashion: 

"Is  anybody  in  the  whole  world  happy? 
Are  you  happy?" 

"Don't  you  think  I  am?" 

"I  'm  afraid  not." 

The  appealing  way  she  looked  at  him,  her 
whole  soul  welling  up  in  her  eyes,  brought  him 
to  his  feet  and  set  him  to  pacing  nervously  up 
and  down.  He  looked  fatigued,  distressed, 
beside  himself  with  care.  She  forgave  him  ev- 
erything but  his  studied  refusal  to  let  her  share 
whatever  weighed  upon  him.  Could  he  not 
see,  she  thought,  how  she  yearned  to  tell  him 
that  whither  he  went  there  she  would  go  also, 
that  his  joys  would  be  all  her  joys  and  that  his 

[181] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

burdens  would  be  divided  with  her,  that  love 
divided  all  sorrow  and  doubled  all  joy. 

Wright  could  stand  it  no  longer.  He  saw 
her  before  him,  trembling  with  that  same  emo- 
tion that  shook  him,  aflame  with  the  same  fire 
that  burned  within  him,  mutely  questioning 
him  with  her  big,  soulful  eyes.  How  could 
he  make  amends  for  that  month  of  neglect  ex- 
cept by  telling  her  what  she  long  ago  had 
guessed,  but  what  more  recently  she  had  a 
right  to  doubt?  He  felt  weak  where  he  wanted 
to  be  strong.  To  hear  from  her  lips  that  she 
loved  him  was  all  that  he  needed  to  make  him 
invincible.  With  her  acknowledged  love  in 
his  heart  there  was  nothing  he  could  not  do. 

"Oh,  Gloria,  I  can't  tell  you  what  a  fight  I  'm 
making.  You  wouldn't  understand.  Busi- 
ness is  business,  outside  a  woman's  realm,  but 
I  've  missed  you  so  much  this  last  month." 

At  this  declaration  she  caught  her  breath. 
Joy,  she  found,  could  sometimes  prove  the  twiij 
of  pain.  That  this  man,  this  strong,  fearless 
man,  in  his  struggles  had  missed  her,  had  inti- 
mated a  longing  for  dependence  upon  her, 

[182] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

made  her  heart  bound.  Love,  even  when  his 
banners  have  been  flung  forth  to  the  breeze 
leagues  before  the  castle  wall  is  reached,  never 
ceases  to  be  a  surprise  when  at  last  the  knock 
at  the  gate  is  heard. 

"You  Ve  no  right  to  say  your  work  is  outside 
of  woman's  realm  if  you  've — if  you  've  missed 
something  a  woman  could  supply." 

"Something  the  one  woman  could  supply," 
he  corrected. 

"I  must  be  going,"  she  said,  rising  from  her 
chair;  "I  'm  afraid  Mrs.  Hayes  is  n't  coming." 

He  stepped  between  her  and  the  door,  let- 
ting her  take  several  steps  forward,  because 
they  brought  her  closer  to  him,  before  he  said : 

"No,  Gloria,  you  must  hear  me.  I  did  n't 
mean  to  speak  now,  of  all  times,  but  it  had  to 
be  some  day,  and  perhaps  it  is  all  for  the  best 
now." 

The  woman  leaned  her  hand  upon  the  table 
for  support,  turning  half  away  from  him. 

"Don't  Joe,  please  don't,"  she  murmured. 
"I  must  go." 

"No,  no,  I  must  tell  you.     You  've  asked 

[183] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

me  if  yx)u  could  help  me.  I  want  you  to  help 
me;  you  can  help  me  always.  I  love  you.  I 
want  you  to  be  my  wife.  I  have  loved  you,  oh, 
so  long;  and,  most  of  all,  I  've  felt  that  you 
have  needed  me.  Don't  tell  me  that  it  was 
just  selfishness,  dear,  that  made  me  feel  that 
my  protecting  arms  should  be  about  you  al- 
ways. Love  is  love,  a  law  unto  itself  alone. 
We  must  recognize  it  and  bow  to  it,  because  it 
brings  us  happiness." 

He  came  a  step  nearer,  but  she  did  not  turn 
to  him.  She  stood  half  turned  away,  her  eyes 
downcast,  her  lips  parted  into  half  a  smile. 
Her  breath  came  fast  and  she  could  feel  her 
heart  beat.  Then  she  heard  him  say  in  a  lower 
tone,  so  gently: 

"Nothing  to  say,  Gloria?  Can't  you  be- 
lieve in  me?" 

She  turned  to  find  herself  gazing  into  his 
eyes. 

"Yes,  I  believe  in  you — as  I  believe  in  my 
father." 

This    answer   was    not    enough.     He    had 

[184] 


"  Gloria,  tell  nie  that  vou  love  me  " 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  Not  yet  had  she  re- 
plied. 

"Say  that  you  care  for  me,  Gloria;  tell. me 
that  you  love  me." 

"I  Ve  always  cared,  Joe ;  I  do  love  you." 

"For  better  or  worse?"  He  held  out  his 
arms. 

"To  the  end  of  the  world,"  she  whispered  as 
his  arms  were  folded  about  her. 

And  as  their  lips  met  in  their  first  kiss, 
Wright  saw  in  her  eyes  the  light  that  never  yet 
has  shone  on  land  or  sea. 


[185] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

EVEN  as  Wright  held  Gloria  in  his  arms 
there  came  back  to  him  her  words: 
"Yes,  I  believe  in  you — ^as  I  believe 
in  my  father." 

They  were  like  lead  about  his  heart,  and  cau- 
tioned him  that  he  must  get  her  away  from 
Belmont  as  quickly  as  possible.  Words  of 
love  must  be  postponed,  new-found  bliss  be 
treated  as  commonplace,  until  he  had  finished 
his  hard  task  of  persuading  her  to  go  away. 

"You  've  made  me  supremely  happy,  Glo- 
ria. I  want  you  to  believe  in  me  and  trust  me 
— always." 

She  smiled  up  at  him  her  love  and  confidence 
as  she  answered,  "I  do,  I  do." 

"I  want  you  to  be  happy,  and  I  know  you  're 
not  happy  in  Belmont.  You  must  go  away  at 
once.     I  '11  follow  you." 

"But  why?"  she  questioned.     The  smile  was 
[186] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

still  there,  but  surprise  peeped  forth  from  her 
eyes.     "I  'm  happy  now." 

Wright  laughed  at  her  with  that  delightfully 
patronizing  air  of  possession  that  lovers  as- 
sume, caught  her  in  his  arms  once  more  and 
kissed  her. 

"I  know,  dear,  but  you  '11  be  happier.  I 
can't  explain.  You  would  n't  understand. 
Can't  you  trust  me?" 

"Ye-es,  but.  father  would — " 

"He  won't  oppose  your  going,  I  know  he 
won't."  At  thought  of  David  Kerr  and  the 
fierce  fight  they  were  waging  Wright  became 
insistent.  "Do  this  for  me,  Gloria.  You  can 
get  a  late  train  for  St.  Louis  tonight.  I  '11 
have  Mrs.  Gilbert  go  with  you.  Next  week 
I  '11  join  you,  and  we  '11  make  plans  for  the 
wedding." 

"But,  Joe,  that 's  so  foohsh,"  she  complained. 
"I  like  Belmont  immensely  now."  Then  she 
struck  a  more  serious  note.  "Besides,  it 
would  n't  be  fair  to  father.  He 's  put  me 
through,  and  I  'm  not  going  to  disappoint  him. 
To  go  away — well,  I  feel  it  would  be  disloyal." 

[187] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

**You  can  write  him  we  're  engaged,"  he 
pleaded.     "Then  I  '11  go  to  see  him." 

Gloria  could  not  altogether  understand  his 
insistence.  Then,  too,  to  send  her  away  just 
after  they  had  found  each  other  was  something 
she  could  not  explain  to  her  father. 

Further  discussion  was  put  out  of  the  ques- 
tion by  the  appearance  of  Judge  Gilbert. 

"Would  you  object  to  waiting  for  Mrs. 
Hayes  in  this  office?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  the 
room  next  to  that  in  which  the  men  had  been 
conferring.  He  smiled  as  he  added,  "Mr. 
Wright  came  on  business,  you  know." 

"I  think  he  transacted  it  with  me.  Judge 
Gilbert,"  she  could  not  help  replying.  Then 
she  asked  Wright  with  a  smile,  "You  won't  be 
long?" 

He  walked  with  her  to  the  door,  to  Gilbert's 
surprise,  crossed  the  threshold  and  went  into 
the  little  office.  Somehow  or  other — such 
things  are  always  mysteries,  certainly  they  are 
accidents — the  door  seemed  to  close  of  its  own 
accord. 

"Wait  for  me  a  little  while,"  he  said,  taking 

[188] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

both  her  hands  in  his.  **It  's  going  to  be  such 
a  glorious  world  for  us.  I  never  knew  what 
happiness  meant  till  now.  To  be  wherever 
you  were  has  always  made  life  sweet,  but 
now  everything  takes  on  a  new  meaning  trans- 
muted by  the  glory  of  being  loved  by  you." 

She  loosed  one  hand  from  his  grasp  and  put 
it  over  his  mouth. 

"Naughty  boy,  you  must  go  back  to  work. 
You  're  playing  truant  here.  I  must  n't  listen 
to  you.  When  I  listen  to  you,  you  make  me 
forget  everything  but  that  I  love  you.  And 
now  I  want  to  be  alone  and  think." 

To  leave  her  for  an  instant  was  like  having 
his  life's  sun  in  eclipse.  At  last  she  freed  her- 
self from  his  arms  and  bade  him  go.  He  had 
gone  as  far  as  the  door,  his  hand  upon  the  knob, 
when  she  quickly  crossed  the  small  space  be- 
tween them,  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck 
and  whispered: 

"Remember,  dear,  in  whatever  you  do,  I  'm 
with  you.  May  my  love  and  my  confidence 
support  you  ever." 

It  seemed  to  him  like  a  benediction.     Again 
[189] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

were  his  arms  around  her,  again  their  lips 
pledged  their  hearts'  lasting  love.  Gently  he 
released  himself  from  her  embrace,  and  with  a 
parting  smile  was  gone. 

Wright  stepped  into  the  library,  his  eyes 
upon  Gloria  until  the  closed  door  shut  her 
from  his  sight.  He  turned  to  find  himself  face 
to  face  with  David  Kerr. 

While  Wright  had  been  talking  to  Gloria, 
Kerr  and  Kendall  had  joined  the  attorney  in 
the  library.  As  soon  as  the  editor  saw  with 
whom  he  had  to  deal,  he  recognized  how  hard 
pressed  were  his  friends  the  enemy,  since  no 
go-between  was  employed.  He  was  being 
asked  to  treat  with  the  boss  of  Belmont  him- 
self. 

"You  know  Mr.  Kendall  and  Mr.  Kerr," 
Gilbert  said,  without  resorting  to  his  social 
manner,  as  was  his  custom.  This  he  knew  to 
be  a  case  of  diamond  cut  diamond,  and  there 
was  no  occasion  for  any  seeming  show  of 
friendliness. 

"I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  them  at  your 
house." 

[190] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

It  was  easy  to  see  from  the  direct  opening  of 
the  conversation  that  there  was  to  be  little  beat- 
ing around  the  bush.  Gilbert  took  a  chair  at 
the  head  of  the  long  library  table.  Wright  sat 
to  his  left,  where  he  could  see  the  door  of  the 
room  in  which  Gloria  waited  for  him.  Oppo- 
site to  him  were  Kerr  and  Kendall. 

"It 's  been  a  hot  campaign,"  were  the  boss's 
first  words,  "but  we  can  afford  to  let  bygones 
be  bygones." 

Wright  was  not  to  be  led  into  any  admission 
which  might  be  used  against  him  later,  and 
therefore  would  not  assent  to  this. 

"What  I  can  afford  has  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  The  one  question  is:  Can  Belmont  afford 
to  give  itself  up  to  this  terminal  trust  that 
leaves  no  stone  unturned  in  its  effort  to  steal 
the  streets  and  parks  of  the  town?  That  is 
only  the  first  step.  Where  do  you  propose  it 
shall  end?" 

"That 's  where  you  misrepresent  our  side, 
Mr.  Wright,"  said  Kendall.  "The  undertak- 
ing you  speak  of  is  perfectly  legitimate,  for 
the  direct  benefit  of  Belmont.     I  challenge  you 

[191] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

to  prove  that  what  you  have  accused  us  of  be- 
ing about  to  do  is  really  the  intention  of  this 
company.     Nothing,  sir,  is  farther  from  it." 

"That 's  all  been  gone  over,"  Wright  said, 
turning  to  the  lawyer  at  the  head  of  the  table. 
"There  's  nothing  new  to  be  said  along  that 
line.  Was  it  for  this  you  sent  for  me,  Judge 
Gilbert?" 

"No.  I  asked  you  to  come  over  here  to  con- 
sider an  offer  for  your  paper.  Is  the  News 
for  sale?" 

"That  depends.  *For  sale'  when  applied  to 
a  newspaper  may  sometimes  have  an  ugly 
meaning." 

"Of  course,"  Gilbert  was  quick  to  add,  "I 
mean  as  a  newspaper  property." 

"I  'm  a  poor  man,  Judge  Gilbert,"  Wright 
began  slowly.  "I  could  n't  refuse  to  consider 
an  offer — " 

He  got  no  further,  for  Kendall  exclaimed : 

"That 's  what  I  thought." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  Wright  asked  him,  lifting 
his  hand  in  warning  that  he  had  not  finished. 
"You  interrupted  me  before  I  was  through. 

[192] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

What  I  say  is  this :  I  could  n't  refuse  to  con- 
sider an  offer  from  a  proper  quarter." 

"What  does  the  source  matter  to  you?"  Ken- 
dall inquired.  "You  're  human.  You  want 
money  as  bad  as  any  of  us." 

Before  replying,  Wright's  gaze  rested  for  an 
instant  on  the  door  behind  which  his  heart's 
happiness  waited.  Her  words  came  to  him, 
strengthening  him  to  meet  the  tempter:  "Re- 
member, dear,  in  whatever  you  do,  I  'm  with 
you.  May  my  love  and  my  confidence  support 
you  ever." 

"I  may  want  money — need  it — worse  than 
any  of  you,"  he  confessed.  "But  it  must  come 
only  one  way — honestly." 

"Nothin'  dishonest  'bout  sellin'  a  paper,  is 
there?"  growled  Kerr. 

"I  can't  tell  in  this  case  until  I  hear  what 
Judge  Gilbert's  offer  is." 

"It 's  simply  this :  I  have  some  clients  who 
wish  to  purchase  your  paper." 

"Mr.  Kerr  and  Mr.  Kendall,  I  suppose." 

"Does  it  make  any  difference  to  you?" 

"It  may  to  Belmont." 
13  [193] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"What 's  Belmont  got  to  do  with  it?"  asked 
Kerr. 

"A  newspaper  can't  change  hands  like  a 
stock  of  groceries,"  Wright  retorted  impa- 
tiently. 

"You  know  I  want  to  be  open  and  above 
board  with  you,  Mr.  Wright,"  soothed  Gilbert. 
"So  I  '11  teU  you  that  Mr.  Kendall  and  Mr. 
Kerr  are  interested  in  this  offer.  I  know  the 
paper  's  mortgaged.  What  '11  you  sell  for,  the 
purchasers  to  assume  the  mortgage  and  all 
other  debts,  and  possession  to  be  given  this 
afternoon?" 

Wright  merely  looked  at  him  and  shook  his 
head.  What  he  thought  he  almost  hated  to 
say.  It  hurt  him  to  think  that  they  could  be- 
heve  he  would  even  listen  to  such  a  proposi- 
tion. 

"Th^n,"  continued  Gilbert,  "another  basis  on 
which  to  deal  would  give  you  nominal  control 
until  after  the  election,  but  my  clients  would 
not  expect  the  paper  to  be  so  vehement  in  its 
denunciations  in  the  next  few  days." 

"Judge  Gilbert,"  the  editor  replied  quietly, 
[194] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

but  with  great  earnestness,  "that 's  an  offer  I 
don't  thank  you  for.  These  men  have  n't 
enough  money  to  buy  my  paper." 

"You  bought  the  paper,"  snarled  Kerr  in  an 
ugly  manner. 

"Yes,"  came  the  answer  right  back  at  him, 
"but  you  want  to  buy  my  self-respect." 

The  two  men  glared  at  each  other,  but  the 
boss  did  not  deny  the  assertion.  The  elder 
man  was  beginning  to  rage  inwardly.  So  ac- 
customed had  he  become  to  the  exercise  of  auto- 
cratic power  in  Belmont  that  he  could  not 
reconcile  himself  to  being  thwarted,  especially 
when  success  was  so  vital  to  him. 

"There  's  a  good  profit  in  it  for  you,"  was 
the  conciliatory  remark  of  Judge  Gilbert. 

"In  dollars  and  cents,  perhaps,"  admitted 
Wright,  "but  there  are  some  things  that  have  a 
greater  value  than  mere  money ;  peace  of  mind, 
for  instance,  and  the  deserved  respect  of  the 
community,  and  honor.  I  can't  sell  out  the 
people  who  are  depending  on  me,  the  people 
of  Belmont." 

The  men  across  the  table  looked  at  him  as  if 

[195] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

they  thought  him  crazy.  They  knew  he  had 
foolish  ideas,  but  they  had  not  dreamed  he 
would  let  such  an  opportunity  slip  through  his 
fingers.  He  was  the  owner  of  a  newspaper 
that  was  losing  money  every  day,  and  they  had 
as  much  as  asked  him  to  name  his  own  figure 
for  his  property.  They  could  not  understand 
how  honor  was  part  of  the  transaction  in  the 
sale  of  a  newspaper,  even  in  the  last  days  of  a 
strong  fight  against  the  organization.  What 
should  he  care  about  the  respect  of  the  commu- 
nity when  he  had  money  enough  to  take  him 
out  of  that  community  and  keep  him  comforta- 
ble until  he  was  ready  to  get  another  paper 
somewhere  else  to  exploit  his  insane  ideas  of 
civic  righteousness? 

"You  are  just  a  little  hasty  in  your  judg- 
ment, Mr.  Wright,"  Judge  Gilbert  said,  when 
he  saw  that  the  publisher  seemed  to  regard  his 
answer  as  final.  "If  you  '11  consider  the  mat- 
ter carefully  I  think  it  '11  appear  to  you  in  this 
light :  Here  's  a  paper  that  is  n't  making  ex- 
penses. A  good  offer  is  made  you  which  if  you 
are  wise  enough  to  accept  will  permit  you  to 

[196] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

leave  Belmont  far  richer  than  when  you  came. 
There  are  other  lances  to  be  broken  elsewhere. 
Why  tilt  here  against  a  stone  wall?" 

"If  it  were  a  stone  wall  there  'd  have  been 
no  offer."  Wright  was  shrewd  enough  to 
know  that  they  must  be  in  desperate  straits. 

"See  here,  young  man,"  Kerr  blazed,  "you 
won't  be  able  to  make  a  go  of  it.  If  you  don't 
sell  now  I  '11  see  to  it  that  some  day  the  sheriff 
will." 

This  direct  threat  was  more  than  he  could 
bear.  Rising  from  his  chair  and  leaning  across 
the  table  the  publisher  shook  his  fist  in  Kerr's 
face  and  told  him  just  what  he  thought  of  the 
situation.  Remembering  who  was  on  the  other 
side  of  the  door  he  was  facing,  he  did  not  raise 
his  voice,  but  into  his  low  tones  he  put  all  the 
fire  of  his  honest  indignation. 

"You  may  put  me  down  and  out,  as  you  boast 
you  can,  but  you  can't  buy  me  out.  You  've 
scared  advertisers  so  they  're  afraid  to  use  my 
paper,  you  've  had  me  sued  for  libel,  you  've 
raised  my  taxes,  you  've  made  the  railroads  hold 
up  my  white  paper,  you  've  annoyed  me  in  a 

[197] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

thousand  petty  ways,  but  I  'm  getting  out  a 
paper  every  day,  and  I  'm  telling  the  truth. 
That 's  what  hurts,"  he  hurled  across  the  table. 
"I  'm  telling  the  truth.     You  can't  stand  it. 

**God  knows  Belmont  needs  somebody  to  tell 
the  truth!  If  you  took  my  paper  today, 
who'd  stand  between  the  people  of  Belmont 
and  the  wolves?  The  town's  being  robbed 
blind.  I  'm  telling  about  it,  and  I  believe  there 
are  enough  honest  people  to  see  me  through 
and  set  the  town  right.  But  they  need  a  leader 
— a  newspaper — and  I  won't  sell  'em  out. 

"For  what 's  coming,"  he  announced  sternly, 
"hold  yourself  responsible,  not  me.  You 
forced  me  to  come  out  with  the  bald  truth  of 
the  matter.  Maybe  you  know  and  maybe  you 
don't  know  that  you  of  all  men  are  the  one  I 
would  least  care  to  hold  up  for  the  public  to  see. 
Today — for  the  first  time — I  printed  my  name 
at  the  head  of  my  editorial  page.  I  want  peo- 
ple to  know  that  back  of  the  paper  's  a  man — 
a  man  that  won't  sell  out,  and  back  of  the  man 
I  'm  going  to  have  the  people.  Do  you  hear? 
Belmont 's  going  to  be  a  clean  city." 

[198] 


"  Licked!     Licked!     I've  just  begun  to  fight  " 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

He  leaned  across  the  table  and  looked  the 
boss  straight  in  the  eye,  emphasizing  his  last 
words  by  bringing  his  fist  down  on  the  table 
with  each  telling  point  he  drove  home.  It  was 
a  duel  between  him  and  Kerr ;  the  others  merely 
looked  on.  Never  in  all  the  days  of  his  po- 
litical activity  had  a  man  talked  in  this 
fashion  to  David  Kerr.  The  audacity  and 
fearlessness  of  the  young  man  aroused  his  ad- 
miration. He  did  not  let  that  feeling  inter- 
fere, however,  with  his  intention  to  destroy  him 
utterly.  The  Belmont  News  must  be  muzzled, 
and  the  boss  could  not  permit  a  matter  of  sen- 
timent to  outweigh  a  political  necessity. 

"You  'd  better  go  slow,  young  man,"  cau- 
tioned Kerr.  "I  ain't  played  my  hand,  you 
know.  You  Ve  put  up  a  good  fight ;  that 's 
why  I  'm  giving  you  a  good  chance  to  git  out 
without  admitting  you  've  been  licked." 

"Licked I  Licked!"  echoed  Wright  with  fine 
disdain,  "I  've  just  begun  to  fight.  You  're 
nearer  a  worse  defeat  at  this  minute  than 
you  ever  were  before  in  all  your  life.  You  're 
going  down  and  the  people  of  Belmont  are 

[199] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

going  to  keep  you  down  if  I  have  anything  to 
do  with  it.  Don't  insult  me  by  trying  to  buy 
my  paper.  I  've  the  dearest  reason  in  the 
world  for  wanting  money  and  for  leaving  Bel- 
mont— but  if  I  go  without  a  dollar  I  can  still 
hold  up  my  head  and  look  every  man  in  the 
eye." 

Kerr  now  looked  at  him  without  visible  show 
of  anger,  in  that  cold,  calculating  manner  he 
had  taught  every  one  to  fear. 

"Then  you  won't  sell?"  he  said. 

"No,"  shouted  Wright,  beside  himself  with 
indignation  at  the  offer;  "I  '11  see  you  in  hell 
first." 

What  further  might  have  been  said  there  is 
no  telling.  The  words  were  scarcely  out  of 
Wright's  mouth  when  he  saw  the  door  opposite 
him  open  and  Gloria  appear.  Instantly  he 
relaxed  from  his  tense,  strained  manner,  and, 
noting  his  change,  the  other  men  turned  to  find 
that  David  Kerr's  daughter  was  the  cause. 
She  stood  in  the  doorway  hesitatingly,  recog- 
nizing that  she  was  interrupting  a  business 
meeting. 

[200] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  "but  from  the 
window  I  saw  Mrs.  Hayes  on  the  street,  and  I 
thought  I  'd  go  to  her." 

"I  '11  join  you,"  Wright  announced.  He 
left  his  place  at  the  table  and  walked  over  to 
where  Gloria  was  standing. 

"I  suppose  the  meeting  is  over,"  ventured 
Gilbert. 

"It  is,  as  far  as  I  'm  concerned,"  said  the 
newspaper  man.  Then,  looking  at  Kerr,  he 
added,  "I  think  I  Ve  made  my  position  per- 
fectly clear." 


[201] 


CHAPTER  XV 

GLORIA'S  announced  intention  of  re- 
joining Mrs.  Hayes  was  not  the  only 
motive  that  had  brought  her  into  the  K- 
brary.  The  angry  hum  of  voices  had  been 
borne  to  her  even  through  the  closed  door,  and 
with  a  woman's  impatience  and  curiosity  she 
was  anxious  to  know  what  was  going  on. 
Greater  than  all  else,  however,  was  her  desire 
to  be  with  Wright.  She  thought  that  by  ap- 
pearing she  could  bring  matters  to  a  conclusion 
and  carry  off  with  her  the  man  she  loved.  Now 
that  she  was  in  the  library  and  Wright  had  said 
that  he  was  ready  to  go  whenever  she  was, 
David  Kerr's  daughter  forgot  about  her  desire 
to  go  to  Mrs.  Hayes. 

Dr.  Hayes  and  his  wife  were  returning  to 
Judge  Gilbert's  office  when  Gloria  had  seen 
them,  and  soon  WiUiams  ushered  them  into  the 
library.     The  presence  of  the  two  women  pre- 

[202] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

vented  all  open  discussion  of  political  matters. 
Even  had  it  not  been  for  Miss  Kerr  and  Mrs. 
Hayes  there  could  have  been  no  controversy, 
because  after  Wright  had  made  his  position 
clear  he  would  not  talk  farther  about  it.  Now 
he  was  merely  waiting  for  Gloria. 

"I  thought  you  said  you  would  n't  be  long," 
was  the  way,  in  a  playful  attempt  at  serious- 
ness, Gloria  upbraided  her  sovereign  lord  when 
they  found  themselves  a  little  apart  from  the 
others. 

*Tt  was  n't  my  fault,"  was  all  he  could  say. 

"You  haven't  told  father,  have  you?" 

"No.  He  was  n't  in  the  mood  for  such  a 
pleasing  revelation.  I  hope  you  've  thought 
about  leaving  for  St.  Louis  to-night.  It 's  now 
imperative  that  you  go." 

"I  thought  about  it,  dear,  but  I  can't  go. 
What  would  I  say  to  father?" 

Wright  was  on  the  point  of  again  urging  her 
to  leave  Belmont  when  he  heard  the  faint  cries 
of  newsboys  far  down  the  street.  Nearer  and 
nearer  came  the  boys.  Louder  and  louder 
were  their  cries.     Street  sales  in  Belmont  were 

[203] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

so  small  that  the  little  urchins  who  sold  papers 
to  chance  customers  were  never  very  noisy. 
An  unusual  clamor  on  their  part  betokened 
some  extraordinary  piece  of  news.  Their 
shouts  at  last  began  to  attract  the  attention  of 
others  in  the  room.  Kerr,  Kendall  and  Hayes 
looked  at  Wright  questioningly.  Then,  as 
they  began  to  distinguish  the  cries  of  one  boy 
in  advance  of  the  others,  the  three  men  walked 
hastily  to  the  window  and  looked  out  on  the 
street.  Every  one  was  rushing  for  a  paper,  or 
else  standing  with  the  sheet  in  his  hand  staring 
at  the  first  page  with  its  big  black  type. 

Recovering  himself  suddenly,  Wright  tried 
to  talk  to  Gloria  to  drown  the  noise,  but  it  was 
too  late. 

"What  is  that  noise?  What  are  they  shout- 
ing for?"  she  asked.  "Listen."  She  put  her 
hand  on  his  arm  as  a  signal  to  say  nothing  while 
she  tried  to  hear  what  the  boys  were  saying. 

"Extryl  Extry!  Get  a  News!  All  about 
the  grafters!  Extry!  Read  the  big  steal! 
Full  account  o'  the  railroad  grab!  Big  men 
and  boodlers  in  combine!     Extry!     Extry!" 

[204] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

It  was  now  a  flood  of  sound  as  the  boys  came 
under  the  window. 

"What 's  it  all  about?"  the  girl  asked. 

"That 's  nothing,  only  a  crowd  of  newsboys 
raising  a  racket.  Gloria,  listen  to  me.  We 
must  get  away  from  here.  Even  if  you  're 
happy  in  Belmont,  I  'm  not.  Won't  you  do 
this  for  me  ?  Let 's  get  away  from  this  office 
and  talk  it  over." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  refused  to  move. 

"Gloria,  you  must  do  as  I  say  without  ques- 
tion.    Just  this  once,  please." 

Both  turned  at  this  instant,  as  did  the  others, 
startled  by  a  hubbub  in  the  outer  office.  Sud- 
denly the  door  was  burst  open  violently  by 
young  Jim  Winthrow,  the  Banner's  political 
reporter.  He  rushed  breathlessly  into  the 
room,  flourishing  a  copy  of  the  Belmont  News. 
Following  him  came  Williams  with  a  look  of 
amazement  on  his  face  as  he  read  the  headlines 
of  the  copy  of  the  paper  he  had. 

"Judge  Gilbert!  Judge  Gilbert!"  gasped 
the  reporter,  with  eyes  for  no  one  else.  "Have 
you  seen  the  News?    Big  story  'bout  the  belt 

fsos] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

line  railway  and  the  'lection !  Gimme  the  facts 
so  I  can  show  the  News  up." 

"Let  me  see  your  paper." 

"Here  it  is — ^with  big  headlines." 

Wright  knew  better  than  any  one  else  in  the 
room  what  was  in  the  paper.  What  was  writ- 
ten there  was  not  for  Gloria's  eyes  to  see,  nor 
for  her  ears  to  hear. 

"You  must  go,  Gloria.  Don't  stay  for 
this;  I  '11  drive  you  to  Locust  Lawn." 

He  was  almost  out  of  the  room  with  her 
when  something  the  reporter  said  caused  her 
to  stop. 

"The  News  says  Dave  Kerr  is  back  of  it," 
explained  Winthrow,  holding  up  the  paper 
for  Judge  Gilbert  to  see,  "and  that  it 's  the 
biggest  steal  in  the  history  of  Belmont." 

"What 's  that?"  Kerr  demanded,  coming 
forward. 

"I  did  n't  see  you,  Mr.  Kerr,"  the  reporter 
apologized,  "but  here  it  is  on  th5  front  page." 

"Come,  Gloria,"  Wright  pleaded  with  her. 

"I  can't  go  yet." 

Beside  her  stood  Williams  still  engaged  in 

[206] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

reading  the  flaring  headlines  of  the  paper  he 
had  brought  into  the  room  with  him.  She 
seized  his  paper  from  him  and  began  to  read 
the  startling  words. 

"It 's  an  infamous  lie !"  shouted  Gilbert, 
crushing  in  his  hands  the  paper  he  had  been 
scanning.  "Dr.  Hayes,  will  you  please  escort 
Miss  Gloria  and  Mrs.  Hayes  to  their  car- 
riage." 

"Stop!"  commanded  Gloria.  The  hum  of 
indignation  sweeping  over  the  room  was 
stilled.  All  turned  to  the  daughter  of  David 
Kerr.     "Is  this  true?" 

"What?"  asked  Gilbert. 

"What  this  paper  says?"  She  held  up  the 
paper,  her  hands  trembling.  Then  she  began 
to  read:  "If  the  democrats  win,  Belmont  will 
surely  be  sold  to  the  merciless  stock-yards 
terminal  trust.  The  deal,  which  means  mil- 
lions for  the  unscrupulous  promoters  and  noth- 
ing for  Belmont,  has  been  engineered  by  that 
king  of  underhand  manipulators,  one  no  less 
unscrupulous  than  the  very  men  to  whom  he 
would  sell  his  town,  David  Kerr!" 

[207] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

There  was  horror  in  her  tones  and  she  held 
the  paper  from  her  as  a  thing  unclean. 

"Is  this  true?"  she  demanded  imperiously. 

"Not  a  word  of  it,"  Judge  Gilbert  was  quick 
to  answer. 

"Not  you."  She  turned  to  David  Kerr. 
"Father,  is  it  true?" 

The  boss  of  Belmont  looked  like  some 
wounded  wild  animal  brought  to  bay.  He 
gazed  with  speechless  rage  at  Joe  Wright,  and 
then  looked  at  his  daughter.  She  stood  with 
arm  outstretched  to  him,  a  mute  but  eloquent 
appeal  for  a  denial.  The  big  man  shook  him- 
self, as  if  calling  forth  all  his  strength  for  a 
final  effort,  and  straightened  himself  to  his  full 
height.  Looking  her  squarely  in  the  eye  he 
replied  firmly: 

"No,  Gloria,  it  ain't  true." 

The  sigh  she  gave  as  her  arm  dropped  to 
her  side  seemed  to  be  a  prayer  of  thanksgi\ang 
that  he  had  come  through  the  ordeal  un- 
scathed. She  knew  he  would,  but  she  wanted 
the  words  of  denial  from  his  own  lips.     Her 

[208] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

next  order  showed  every  one  that  she  was  the 
daughter  of  David  Kerr. 

"Then  punish  the  man  who  published  that 
lie." 

Wright's  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating  as  he 
heard  the  words  that  had  in  them  all  the  final- 
ity of  a  funeral  bell. 

Kerr  had  his  own  reasons  for  wishing  to 
minimize  the  matter.  Joe  Wright  he  would 
willingly,  gladly  have  sacrificed,  but  he  did  not 
know  how  it  would  react  on  Gloria.  He  could 
find  means  to  make  the  newspaper  man  suffer 
without  Gloria  being  cognizant  of  the  fact. 

"That 's  just  Western  politics."  The  boss 
tried  to  pass  it  off  lightly.  "Don't  let  that 
bother  you." 

"He  must  be  punished,  I  say."  Her  in- 
dignation knew  no  bounds.  "Would  you  let  it 
go  unchallenged  that  I  am  the  daughter  of 
such  a  man?" 

Kerr  was  aroused  by  her  spirited  manner. 
It  would  be  necessary,  he  saw,  for  him  to  carry 
it  through  to  the  end. 

1*  [209] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Suppose  it  was  Joe  Wright?"  he  asked. 

The  occasion  was  too  serious  for  a  smile,  but 
in  her  heart  she  laughed  away  the  suggestion. 
She  wanted  to  show  her  contempt  for  a  man 
who  through  a  newspaper  would  utter  such 
lies,  and  she  therefore  replied: 

"That  can't  be.  He  is  n't  that  kind  of  man. 
But  if  he  did,  I  would  still  say — " 

"It  is  Joe  Wright,"  Kerr  roared. 

All  leaned  forward  to  hear  what  the  girl 
would  say. 

"Then  I  would  still  say,  'Punish  Joe 
Wright.'  " 

From  Wright's  lips  there  burst  forth  one 
word: 

"Gloria!" 

He  came  a  step  toward  her„  and  she  turned 
to  him  with  an  assuring  smile. 

"I  don't  believe  it,  Joe."  Again  she  ad- 
dressed her  father  and  with  fine  scorn  declared, 
"It 's  a  lie.  He  could  n't  do  it.  You  don't 
know  him  as  I  do."  Turning  once  more  to 
the  man  she  loved,  she  said  proudly,  "Say  it 's 
a  lie,  Joe." 

[210] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

The  two  stood  gazing  at  each  other,  utterly- 
oblivious  of  everything  else  in  the  world.  In 
her  eyes  there  was  nothing  of  doubt.  She  put 
into  her  look  all  the  love  and  confidence  she  had 
promised  would  always  be  his.  With  Wright 
it  was  far  otherwise.  No  matter  what  he  said, 
the  fact  could  not  be  kept  from  her.  She 
would  investigate.  At  the  top  of  his  editorial 
page  that  day  were  the  words,  "Owned  and 
edited  by  Joseph  Wright."  He  had  just 
sworn  that  he  would  be  the  champion  of  the 
people  of  Belmont,  and  here  at  his  first  trial  he 
was  quailing  under  the  eyes  of  the  woman  he 
loved.  With  a  wrench  he  tore  himself  away 
from  his  dear  desire  to  save  her  from  pain  and 
answered  huskily: 

"You  don't  understand." 

"You!"  she  cried  in  an  agony  of  despair  as 
she  realized  he  was  confessing. 

A  single  movement  of  his  head  showed  his 
assent. 

"Oh,  you  coward!"  Her  disgust  was  over- 
powering. The  withering  contempt  she  put 
into  her  words  was  equaled  only  by  her  look  of 

[211] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

scorn.  He  started  to  speak,  but  with  a  gesture 
of  impatience  she  stopped  him. 

"All  your  words  are  lies,  lies,  lies!  And  to 
think  that  I  promised  within  this  hour  to  be 
your  wife!  You  make  me  hate  myself  for 
ever  having  looked  at  you.  Now  I  under- 
stand why  you  urged  me  to  leave  Belmont." 
Again  he  tried  to  speak.  "Not  a  word.  I'll 
not  listen  to  you.     Father,  take  me  home." 

She  shrank  from  Wright  as  if  to  look  at  him 
were  dishonor. 

All  the  great  love  he  had  for  her  welled 
forth  in  one  cry: 

"Gloria!" 

The  girl  could  not,  would  not  hear.  She  had 
but  one  refuge  for  her  breaking  heart.  Turn- 
ing to  her  father  she  flung  herself  into  his  arms 
with  only  a  single  word:     "Father!" 

With  never  a  word,  with  never  a  look  to 
right  or  left,  the  man  she  had  promised  to  love 
and  who  had  promised  to  love  her,  walked  out 
of  the  room. 

Sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break,  Gloria 
rested  in  her  father's  arms. 

[212], 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  unexpected  and  sensational  man- 
ner in  which  the  ^isit  of  Joe  Wright 
to  Judge  Gilbert's  office  was  termi- 
nated was  not  without  effect  upon  every  one 
in  the  room.  Pity  for  Gloria  was  the  dominat- 
ing emotion,  for  every  one  present  realized  her 
unhappy  position.  The  dramatic  revelation  of 
her  love  affair,  the  knowledge  that  she  had  been 
sacrificed,  stirred  every  heart.  JMrs.  Gilbert 
and  Mrs.  Hayes,  not  well  versed  in  politics, 
harbored  no  slight  resentment  against  the  pub- 
lisher of  the  News,  since  they  regarded  the 
article  as  too  severe.  Were  not  their  husbands 
interested  on  the  same  side  as  David  Kerr? 
And  they  were  honest  men.  But  their  hus- 
bands knew  the  full  measure  of  the  bitter  cup 
that  both  the  boss  and  his  daughter,  for  the 
father's  misdeeds,  were  called  upon  to  drain. 
The  first  thing  to  do  was  to  get  Gloria  away 

[213] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

from  the  office.  For  several  days  she  had  been 
staying  with  Mrs.  Hayes,  and  thither  she  was 
now  taken.  By  Dr.  Hayes's  order  she  was 
put  at  once  to  bed,  and  under  the  influence  of 
an  opiate,  she  was  soon  asleep.  Dr.  Hayes 
came  downstairs  and  announced  to  Kerr,  who 
was  savagely  pacing  back  and  forth  in  the 
drawing-room,  that  his  daughter  was  suffer- 
ing from  a  great  nervous  shock.  He  also  said 
that  she  would  probably  sleep  for  several 
hours. 

"It  ain't  no  use  for  me  to  stay  here  then," 
the  boss  declared.  "If  you  want  me  you  can 
git  me  by  telephone  at  my  office  or  Gilbert's 
or  at  the  Demmycratic  club  rooms." 

"Even  if  she  asks  for  you,"  said  the  doctor, 
"I  think  it  best  for  you  to  stay  away  until  her 
nerves  are  quieter." 

As  there  was  nothing  further  the  two  men 
could  do,  they  walked  down-town  together, 
leaving  Mrs.  Hayes  to  watch  over  Gloria. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  before  the  girl  opened 
her  eyes.  Dr.  Hayes  had  been  home  to  dinner 
and  then  gone  out  again.     His  wife  was  sit- 

[214] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

ting  in  Gloria's  room  reading  by  a  light  which 
was  carefully  shaded  so  as  not  to  annoy  the 
sleeper.  She  had  turned  several  pages  of  her 
book  with  the  feeling  that  her  patient  was  now 
fully  awake  before  she  looked  up  to  see  if  her 
belief  was  justified.  Gloria  was  gazing  va- 
cantly at  the  ceiling. 

"Is  there  anything  you  want,  dear?"  she 
asked,  going  over  to  the  bed. 

As  Mrs.  Hayes  looked  down  at  the  girl,  she 
seemed  to  her  like  a  lily  that  had  been  beaten 
by  the  wind  and  bruised  by  the  rain  and  left 
all  forlorn  to  die.  In  the  girl's  face  she  read 
the  story  of  the  last  few  hours. 

"Is  there  anything  you  want,  dear?"  she  re- 
peated. 

"Nothing." 

Gloria  looked  up  at  her  with  a  pathetic  lit- 
tle smile  of  appreciation  for  her  kindness.  She 
threw  one  hand  out  on  top  of  the  cover,  and 
Mrs.  Hayes  took  it  in  hers.  It  was  some  time, 
however,  before  Gloria  spoke. 

"You  heard  everything?" 

"Yes." 

[215] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"And  you  understand?" 

"I  think  I  do,  Gloria." 

"Then  there  isn't  anything  much  for  me  to 
tell  you." 

For  a  long  time  she  preserved  silence,  Mrs. 
Hayes  holding  her  hand  but  saying  nothing. 

"It  is  n't  as  if  he  had  died,"  she  began  slowly," 
almost  as  if  just  talking  aloud  to  herself.  "I 
think  I  could  have  stood  that.  In  time  every- 
thing would  have  come  to  be  just  a  beautiful 
dream,  Paris  and  Behnont  and  all.  In  my 
heart  I  could  always  have  cherished  the  mem- 
ory of  a  strong,  brave  man,  the  man  I  thought 
he  was.  You  know,  Mrs.  Hayes,  he  seemed 
to  me  to  be  very  much  like  my  father." 

For  a  time  she  thought  it  over  to  herself. 
Mrs.  Hayes  did  not  press  her,  and  continued 
to  show  her  sympathy  by  holding  her  hand. 

"Yes,  it  would  have  been  a  lot  better  had  he 
died  before  I  ever  knew.  What  would  have 
been  a  beautiful  dream  is  now  only  a  hideous 
nightmare.  And  I  believed  in  him  so!  You 
who  have  seen  just  a  little  of  him  can't  know 
how  I  loved  him.     It  was  n't  exactly  love  when 

[216] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

we  were  abroad  in  the  same  party.  Yes,  it 
was ;  only  I  did  n't  know  it.  It  was  n't  until 
he  had  gone  away  and  no  word  came  from  him 
that  I  knew  how  much  he  was  to  me.  And 
then  I  met  him  here.  Heaven  seemed  to  open 
for  me  that  night." 

She  turned  her  head  for  a  minute,  and  the 
tears  began  to  flow.  When  she  began  again 
her  eyes  were  still  blurred  with  tears. 

"I  can  tell  you,  and  I  could  tell  Mrs.  Gil- 
bert, that  it 's  going  to  hurt  me  a  lot.  It 's  go- 
ing to  hurt  to  think  how  I  was  deceived.  I 
thought  I  was  building  my  house  of  life  upon  a 
rock,  and  when  the  rains  came  I  awoke  to  find 
the  foundation  was  only  shifting  sand." 

"We  all  have  our  troubles,  dear,"  Mrs. 
Hayes  told  her.  "Yours  may  seem  hard  to 
bear,  but  you  must  know  that  life  can't  all  be 
painted  in  rainbow  hues.  I  've  taken  you  with 
me  into  Belmont's  unhappiest  homes,  and  what 
you  have  seen  should  teach  you  to  bear  your 
own  trials  with  resignation  and  fortitude  as  a 
Christian  should.  Perhaps  it 's  not  well  to 
think  how  much  better  off  we  are  than  other 

[217] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

people,  but  when  we  do  think  of  it  we  see  that 
God  has  shown  us  abundant  kindness  com- 
pared to  that  given  to  others,  and  then  our 
crosses  are  lighter." 

"But  I  loved  him  so!"  cried  Gloria,  burying 
her  face  in  the  pillow. 

Mrs.  Hayes  could  only  clasp  the  girl's  hand. 
The  attempt  to  comfort  her  was  unprofitable. 
Her  grief  was  too  new,  her  wounds  too  fresh 
for  comfort.  Longer  and  longer  grew  the  in- 
tervals between  her  sobs.  Finally  Mrs.  Hayes 
thought  she  had  fallen  asleep,  but  Gloria  was 
only  thinking.  It  came  to  her  that  she  was 
still  young.  Love  would  never  be  hers,  she 
was  sure  of  that ;  but  long  years  stretched  out 
before  her.  She  couldn't  be  a  coward  and 
shirk  those  years.  Once  she  had  built  her 
house  of  love  and  life  upon  the  quaking  sands, 
now  she  would  build  her  house  of  life  upon  the 
firm  rock  of  service.  In  ministering  to  the  un- 
fortunate, she  might  find  surcease  for  her  own 
sorrow. 

"Mrs.  Hayes?" 

"What,  Gloria?" 

[218] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

**I  'm  not  going  to  let  anything  that  hap- 
pened today  spoil  my  life." 

"Of  course  not,  dear.  Rain  today  means 
sunshine  tomorrow  for  us." 

"I  don't  know  about  the  sunshine,  but  I  do 
know  that  I  want  to  go  along  just  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened.  Tomorrow  let 's  do  just 
what  we  planned  to  do,  and  the  next  day  and 
the  next.  I  want  to  keep  busy.  Can't  you 
understand?" 

Mrs.  Hayes  did  understand,  and  admired 
the  girl  for  her  bravery. 

"All  right,  Gloria.  I  think  that  is  best. 
We  were  n't  put  into  this  world  to  have  only 
the  good  things  of  life  and  shirk  the  bad  things. 
We  must  take  them  as  they  come,  the  bad  with 
the  good.  You  are  doing  just  what  Mr. 
Wright  would  have  you  do  if  he  were  the  man 
you  thought  him  and  he  had  died  before  your 
wedding  day.  Perhaps  all  will  come  out  as 
you  once  had  planned." 

The  daughter  of  David  Kerr  shook  her 
head. 

"That  can  never  be." 

[219] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

She  said  no  more,  and  after  a  time  seemed  to 
fall  asleep.  Mrs.  Hayes  unclasped  her  hand, 
turned  out  the  light,  and  left  the  room. 

Through  the  windows  streamed  the  moon- 
light. The  girl,  assured  that  she  was  alone, 
turned  on  her  side  and  watched  the  beams 
creep  slowly  across  the  room. 

What  a  flood  bf  memories  the  moonlight 
brought ! 

Those  first  nights  on  shipboard  had  been 
under  a  silver  moon  that  shed  its  rays  upon  a 
silver  sea.  Those  nights  in  France  a  month 
later  had  been  under  a  moon  no  less  gorgeous. 
Then  had  come  the  Rhine  and  there,  too,  had 
been  moonlight. 

She  tried  to  think  of  him  as  he  had  been  and 
not  as  he  was.  In  him  she  had  found  every 
good  trait  a  man  should  have.  She  was  cha- 
grined to  think  how  easily  it  now  appeared  she 
had  been  won.  How  much  she  would  have 
been  spared,  she  pondered,  had  she  not  been  so 
eager  for  his  love  as  to  show  him  so  soon  that 
she  cared  for  him. 

Every  familiar  gesture  which  was  at  all  a 

[220] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

part  of  him  she  knew  would  call  him  to  mind 
when  another  man  might  make  it.  The  way- 
he  held  his  cigar  when  he  smoked,  the  odd  man- 
ner in  which  he  would  lock  his  hands  together 
whenever  a  knotty  problem  bothered  him,  these 
little  things  and  a  host  of  others  would  come 
back  to  plague  her. 

All  the  dear,  dead  past  crowded  into  her 
mind.  It  was  not  of  the  man  whom  that  after- 
noon she  had  spurned  that  she  thought,  but  of 
the  man  whom  in  her  heart  she  cherished — ^her 
ideal. 

With  a  mighty  sob  she  began  again  to  weep. 
There  had  come  to  her  the  realization  that  love 
was  done.  Far  across  the  room  the  moon- 
beams crept  before  Gloria  fell  into  a  fitful 
slumber. 


[221] 


I 


CHAPTER  XVII 

' '  "^"^  ' VE  forgotten  what  we  'd  planned  for 
this  afternoon,"  Gloria  remarked  to 
Mrs.  Hayes  the  morning  after  the 
stormy  scene  in  Judge  Gilbert's  office.  Yes- 
terday was  carefully  ignored  by  both  as  they 
talked. 

"This  was  the  day  Mrs.  Wallace  asked  us  to 
help  her  at  the  mission,"  Mrs.  Hayes  ex- 
plained. 

She  did  not  say  further  that  she  had  tele- 
phoned earlier  in  the  morning  and  had  Mrs, 
Wallace,  the  matron,  make  plans  whereby  the 
whole  afternoon  would  be  taken  up.  She  be- 
lieved Gloria's  peace  of  mind  would  be  all  the 
greater  were  she  engaged  in  some  work  which 
would  make  her  feel  that  through  her  the  pain 
of  the  sufferer  was  alleviated  and  the  bruised 
heart  of  the  unhappy  bound  up. 

It  was  just  two  o'clock  when  they  reached 

[222] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

the  mission.  They  had  not  been  there  long 
before  Mrs.  Wallace  suggested  that  they  call 
on  a  poor  girl  who  was  ill  in  a  room  over  Mike 
Noonan's  saloon.  The  sick  woman  was  known 
to  her,  but  she  told  nothing  of  her  story.  It 
was  n't  much  different  from  any  one  of  half  a 
hundred  she  might  have  told. 

The  two  women  felt  not  the  slightest  fear  in 
walking  through  such  a  tough  quarter  of  the 
town.  Mrs.  Hayes  was  an  experienced  settle- 
ment worker,  and  knew  many  of  the  persons 
whom  they  passed.  They  for  their  part  knew 
her  and  respected  her  for  the  kindly  charity  she 
dispensed  so  unostentatiously.  As  for  Gloria, 
she  could  fear  nothing  since  she  was  almost  in 
total  ignorance  of  what  dangers  might  beset 
their  path.  Then,  too,  she  was  busy  with  her 
own  thoughts. 

Mrs.  Hayes  had  been  told  in  what  room  the 
sick  woman  lay,  and  without  a  word  to  any  one, 
in  fact  they  saw  no  one,  they  went  in  the  door 
on  the  side  street  and  climbed  the  dark,  uncar- 
peted  stairs  to  the  third  floor.  At  a  door  just 
at  the  foot  of  the  flight  of  steps  which  led  to 

[223] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

the  fourth  story,  Mrs.  Hayes  knocked  gently. 
There  was  no  answer.  She  decided  that  if 
there  was  no  response  to  the  next  knock  she 
would  open  the  door  to  see  if  the  girl  were 
asleep.  A  second  and  louder  knock,  however, 
aroused  her  and  she  called  to  them  to  enter. 

Gloria  and  Mrs.  Hayes  walked  into  the 
room,  and  as  the  latter  went  to  the  bedside  to 
explain  how  they  happened  to  call,  the  daugh- 
ter of  David  Kerr  stood  stock  still  and  gazed 
about  her  with  undisguised  curiosity. 

The  occupant  of  the  room,  a  frail  little  crea- 
ture with  uncertain,  golden  hair,  was  known  to 
her  companions  as  Little  Ella.  Upon  the  blot- 
ter at  the  police  station  she  was  always  booked 
as  Luella  Windermere.  She  had  found  the 
name  in  a  novel  and,  liking  it,  had  taken  it  for 
her  own.  In  the  unkindly  daylight,  without 
the  paint  that  mocked  the  cheek  that  once  had 
bloomed  a  healthier  hue,  the  pallor  of  her  face 
was  heightened  by  the  dark  circles  under  her 
eyes.  Yet  the  ravages  of  a  life  too  harsh  for 
one  so  weak  had  not  been  so  great  as  to  blot 

[224] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

entirely  from  her  face  the  traces  of  a  simpering 
sweetness. 

If  Little  Ella's  room  could  be  summed  up 
in  one  word,  that  word  would  be — sham.  It 
was  not  a  poverty  that  honestly  confessed  it- 
self to  be  such,  that  room.  Instead  it  was  a 
poverty  that  slunk  away  into  corners  and  hid 
behind  the  rankest  imitations  of  better  things. 
Everything  seemed  to  have  been  purchased  at 
the  cheapest  booths  at  Vanity  Fair.  There 
were  few  things  of  substance,  but  many  things 
of  vain  and  empty  show.  Had  Gloria  been 
more  skilled  in  reading  the  world  aright,  every 
bauble,  every  useless  ornament  would  have 
preached  a  sermon.  As  it  was,  there  was  for 
her  in  large  part  only  the  interest  of  novelty. 

To  the  right  of  Gloria  were  two  windows 
looking  out  over  the  roofs  of  neighboring 
houses.  Between  them  was  a  scarred  maple 
dresser.  It  was  littered  among  other  things 
with  post-card  photographs,  business  cards,  a 
calendar  with  a  picture  in  many  colors  and  a 
bottle  of  Florida  water.     Directly  in  front  of 

16  [225] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

her  was  the  sick  girl's  bed,  a  cheap  iron  affair 
with  massive  tarnished  brass  trimmings.  Be- 
yond it  was  a  frail-looking  trunk  painted  in 
imitation  of  leather.  The  only  things  which 
boldly  confessed  themselves  to  be  just  as  rep- 
resented were  two  wooden  kitchen  chairs. 

Looking  close  beside  her,  Gloria  saw  a 
battered  maple  washstand  and  beyond  it  a 
door  which  led  into  a  closet  under  the  stairs. 
She  glanced  curiously  at  the  walls,  which 
boasted  some  cheap  prints,  most  of  them  show- 
ing by  the  advertising  matter  upon  them  from 
which  whisky  house  they  had  emanated. 
Some  of  the  girl's  waists  and  skirts  hung  upon 
nails,  but  the  clothes  which  she  had  taken  oif 
the  night  before  on  retiring  were  upon  a  chair 
beside  her  trunk. 

"I  heard  you  were  sick,"  Mrs.  Hayes  said 
sympathetically,  "and  I  want  to  know  if  I  can 
do  anything  to  help  you." 

Little  Ella  viewed  them  with  cold  antago- 
nism. They  were  not  of  her  world  and  she 
both  feared  and  hated  them. 

"Naw,"    she   growled.     Then    against   her 

[226] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

real  wishes  something  out  of  her  old  life  made 
her  add  grudgingly,  "Much  obliged." 

Mrs.  Hayes  had  worked  too  long  among 
such  people  not  to  understand,  and  she  ignored 
the  girl's  unfriendly  manner  by  asking,  "How' 
do  you  feel  to-day  ?'* 

"Rotten." 

"No  wonder;  it 's  so  close  in  here.  I  think 
it  would  be  better  for  you  if  you  'd  let  me  open 
a  window.     It  *s  mild  out.     May  I  ?" 

"Go  as  fer  as  yuh  like;  I  don't  feel  like 
fightin'." 

A  nod  from  Mrs.  Hayes  sent  Gloria  to  open 
a  window. 

"There  now,"  exclaimed  the  younger  visitor. 
"You  '11  feel  better." 

"Gloria,"  Mrs.  Hayes  asked,  so  the  sick 
woman  could  not  hear,  "do  you  mind  staying 
with  her  while  I  go  to  the  mission  for  a  few 
minutes?  I  want  Mrs.  Wallace  to  come  over 
if  she  can ;  and  the  doctor,  too,  as  soon  as  I  can 
find  him." 

"Certainly,  I  '11  stay,"  was  the  prompt  re- 
sponse.     "What 's  the  matter  with  her?" 

[227] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"I  can't  say  until  I  see  the  doctor,  because 
I  'm  not  sure.  I  want  Dr.  Hayes  to  see  her. 
If  I  can't  get  him  I  '11  get  Dr.  Norton. 
You  're  not  afraid  to  stay?" 

Gloria  smiled.  What  was  there  to  fear? 
The  girl  surely  could  not  become  so  ill  in  the 
short  space  of  time  Mrs.  Hayes  should  be  away 
as  to  render  her  inexperienced  nurse  abso- 
lutely helpless. 

"Of  course  I  'm  not  afraid,"  she  replied. 
Then  impulsively,  "Besides,  I  want  to  do  some 
good  in  the  world.     I  've  been  too  selfish." 

"No,  dear,  not  that,"  her  companion  gently 
remonstrated.  "Thoughtless,  perhaps,  be- 
cause you  did  n't  know,  but  not  selfish."  Then 
she  turned  to  Little  Ella  and  said  in  the  same 
quiet  tone,  "I  think  you  'd  be  happier  where 
there  'd  be  some  one  to  take  care  of  you." 

"I  'm  not  sick,  I  'm  just  tired." 

The  ignorant  fear  sickness  and  disguise  it  as 
long  as  they  can,  shirking  the  fight  and  thereby 
making  it  all  the  harder.  Understanding 
this,  Mrs.  Hayes  answered  lightly: 

"If  that 's  the  case,  I  hope  you  '11  entertain 

[228] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

my  friend  for  me  until  I  return.  She  's  inter- 
ested in  the  work  at  the  mission." 

"You  're  on,"  Little  Ella  replied  with  an  air 
of  resignation  as  Mrs.  Hayes  left  the  room. 
She  rolled  over  on  her  side  and  closed  her  eyes. 
Already  she  began  to  feel  bored. 

Although  Gloria  had  professed  that  she  had 
no  fear  about  being  left  with  the  sick  woman, 
when  she  said  it  she  had  in  mind  only  a  fear 
of  being  alone  in  such  a  dismal  lodging  house 
and  fear  that  she  might  be  called  upon  to  act 
as  doctor  and  trained  nurse  both  were  her 
patient  to  take  a  turn  for  the  worse.  Now, 
however,  a  new  thought  came  to  her.  How 
was  she  to  act?  What  was  she  to  do  to  amuse 
her?  She  felt  instinctively  the  antipathy  she 
had  aroused.  She  cowered  like  a  lamb  before 
this  young  she-wolf  of  the  city.  She  was 
alone,  defenseless,  with  this  creature  that  had 
so  far  reverted  to  type  that  she  might  rend 
and  tear.  Even  in  a  battle  of  wits,  and  that 
was  all  there  would  be  if  the  girl  did  not  ig- 
nore her  entirely,  Gloria  felt  herself  no  match 
for  this  brazen  child  of  misfortune.     Her  com- 

[229] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

parisons  were  physical,  but  it  was  not  a  phys- 
ical fear  she  felt.  Sheltered  inexperience  was 
pitted  against  the  most  cruel  experience  so- 
ciety could  ever  devise  or  tolerate. 

Gloria  was  mistaken  in  thinking  that  Little 
Ella  slept.  After  Mrs.  Hayes  had  left  her  she 
walked  quietly  back  to  a  chair  by  the  bedside. 
On  it  lay  a  cheap  novel  with  which  the  sick 
woman  had  been  beguiling  the  time.  She 
picked  it  up  and  was  turning  the  pages  casu- 
ally when  a  feeling  stole  over  her  that  she  was 
being  observed.  Putting  aside  the  book,  she 
found  Little  Ella  gazing  at  her  stonily. 

"Say,  what  'd  you  come  here  for?" 

"Why,"  she  answered  in  surprise,  "I  wanted 
to  help  you." 

A  sneer  curled  the  sick  woman's  lip,  a  cyn- 
ical sneer  of  disbelief. 

"Help  me !  To  what  ?  I  ain't  ever  saw  you 
down  here  before.  Come  on,  what  brought 
you?" 

"I  came  with  Mrs.  Hayes,"  was  all  that 
Gloria  could  find  to  answer. 

"The  woman  what  just  went  out?" 

[230] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"Yes." 

Feeling  that  she  must  do  something  to  end 
this  catechism,  Gloria  happened  to  glance  at 
the  book  she  held  in  her  hand,  and  this  led  her 
to  ask,  "Would  n't  you  like  me  to  read  to  you?" 

"Naw.     I  can  read  fer  myself." 

"Perhaps  there  is  something  else  I  might 
do.  What  do  you  say,  I  might  write  a  letter 
for  you?" 

"A  letter?    Who  to?" 

"Isn't  there  some  one  who  ought  to  know 
you  are  sick?'* 

"Who'd  want  to  hear  from  me?"  the 
woman  replied  sullenly.  "I  ain't  the  belle  o' 
the  village  any  more." 

"Haven't  you  a  mother?" 

"She  's  dead." 

"A  father,  then?  Isn't  there  some  one 
watching  for  you,  hoping  to  see  you  come  down 
the  quiet  little  street?" 

Here  was  an  attempt  to  awaken  a  sentiment 
for  the  past  which  met  with  no  success.  Little 
Ella  replied  roughly: 

"They  're  watching  at  his  house  all  right — 

[231] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

all  right — him  and  that  pasty-face  wife  of  his 
— so  they  can  run  out  and  unchain  the  dog. 
Then  they'd  gather  in  the  parlor  an'  say 
prayers  fer  the  dead — that 's  mie." 

"What  could  you  have  done  to  have  your 
family  treat  you  so?"  Gloria  asked.  "What 
could  you  do  to  be  estranged  from  your  father, 
of  all  persons?" 

This  was  something  Gloria  could  not  under- 
stand. Once  she  would  not  have  understood  a 
lack  of  love  where  two  had  lived  together  con- 
tinuously. Now  she  could  waive  that  point, 
but  the  estrangement  was  beyond  her. 

Little  Ella  considered  the  question  gravely. 
What  was  she  to  tell  this  inquisitive  girl  who 
evidently  was  not  asking  questions  just  for  the 
fun  of  prying  into  some  one  else's  life?  Some- 
how or  other  Gloria  began  to  appeal  to  her. 
She  had  decided  that  the  visitor's  ignorance 
was  real,  not  feigned.  In  reply  to  the  question 
as  to  why  she  was  not  received  at  home,  she 
turned  her  big  dark  eyes,  lusterless  now,  upon 
Gloria,  and  said  quietly: 

"I  loved." 

[232] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Gloria,  and  a  sudden  pain 
shot  through  her. 

"Oh,  what?" 
*   "Was  it  really  love?" 

The  question  came  forth  without  a  thought 
of  how  it  might  aif  ect  her  hearer.  It  did,  in- 
deed, provoke  Little  Ella,  taking  away  that 
kindly  feeling  which  had  begun  to  kindle  in 
her  heart  because  of  Gloria's  ignorance. 

"Didn't  I  say  I  loved?"  she  demanded 
harshly.  "What  do  you  know  of  love?  You 
can't  come  down  here  and  teach  me  anything. 
Pooh  I  I  don't  believe  you  know  what  real 
love  is.     Was  you  ever  in  love  ?" 

Ordinarily  to  a  girl  reared  as  Gloria  had  been 
no  more  serious  affront  could  have  been 
offered  her.  It  was  a  meddling  with  her  pri- 
vate affairs  which  was  unpardonable. 

"Was  you?" 

Little  Ella  asked  the  question  again  with  the 
sharpness  gained  from  listening  to  the  city  at- 
torney cross-examine  witnesses  in  police  court. 
Seeing  that  she  was  almost  compelled  to  say 
"yes"  or  "no,"  Gloria  replied  defiantly: 

[233] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Yes,  I  was." 

"An'  yer  not  married?" 

"No." 

"Goin'  to  be?" 

A  pause. 

"No." 

"Say,  yer  overlookin'  a  bet.  What 's  the 
matter?" 

Gloria  felt  herself  fascinated  by  this  slight 
little  woman  who  in  her  excitement  had 
propped  herself  up  in  bed  on  a  thin,  trembling 
arm.  The  light  had  come  back  into  her  eyes 
as  she  pursued  her  inquiries  and  they  shone 
like  two  burning  coals. 

"He  did  n't  really  love  me,"  Gloria  said  more 
to  herself  than  to  the  girl. 

"Did  he  tell  you  so?  How  do  you  know?" 
There  was  no  answer.  "Huh!  You  asked 
me  questions  so  I  thought  I  'd  ask  you  some. 
Did  he  know  you  loved  'im?" 

"He  did,  but — ^my  father  discovered  that  he 
was  unworthy." 

This  information  seemed  to  Little  Ella  to 

[234] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

be  a  bond  of  fellowship.  She  fell  back  on  the 
bed  to  rest,  and  remarked  philosophically, 

"Humph!  My  ol'  man  thought  the  feller  I 
loved  was  no  good,  too.  Guess  we  Ve  had 
pretty  hard  times,  eh?"  No  reply,  "What 
d' you  think?" 

"I — I — he  was  unworthy." 

It  was  now  Gloria  who  spoke  listlessly. 

"So  you  had  to  choose  between  'im  an'  yer 
father?" 

"Was  there  any  choice?     I  gave  him  up." 

"I  left  home.  So,  you  see,  I  've  loved 
more  'n  you  've  ever  loved,"  she  cried.  "You 
didn't  really  love."  There  was  scorn  in  her 
voice  as  she  spoke.  "I  've  gone  through  fire 
an'  storm  fer  the  man  I  loved,  because  I  loved 
a  real  man.  You  must  'a'  loved  some  kid  at 
the  ribbon  counter.  A  real  man  would  n't  'a' 
let  you  give  him  up." 

This  was  a  tribute  to  the  animal  perfection 
of  the  graceful  young  creature  before  her. 
The  sight  of  Gloria  as  something  to  be  desired, 
to  be  possessed,  made  Little  Ella  feel  that  no 

[235] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

man  with  red  blood  in  his  veins  would  give  her 
up  without  a  fight.  She  hated  her  for  her 
masses  of  beautiful  hair,  her  deep,  soulful  eyes, 
her  complexion  of  apple  blossoms,  and  her  del- 
icate white  hands.  She  hated  her  for  her 
svelte,  girlish  figure  and  her  beautiful  clothes 
which  brought  out  her  best  lines.  A  woman 
may  be  down  in  the  world,  but  she  has  eyes  to 
see. 

"Look  at  me,"  she  cried,  beating  her  flat 
breasts  with  her  red,  bony  hands.  "A  man 
died  fer  me — an'  he  thought  I  was  worth  it. 
Did  you  love  a  man  well  enough  for  him  to  do 
that  fer  you?" 

Gloria  could  only  avoid  the  question  by  tact- 
lessly referring  to  Little  Ella's  present  state. 

"You  don't  know  what  you  're  saying. 
Can't  you  see  what  he  's  brought  you  to?" 

"Don't  you  say  a  word  against  him," 
snapped  the  sick  woman.  "All  men  ain't  alike, 
neither.  It  was  n't  his  fault  I  'm  here.  It 's 
the  system." 

"The  system!    What 's  that?" 

Here  was  the  introduction  of  a  new  element. 

[236] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

Gloria's  curiosity  was  aroused.  There  was 
something  inexorable  about  it,  to  judge  from 
Little  Ella's  manner  of  speaking. 

"Well,  call  it  society,  if  you  want  to,"  con- 
ceded society's  victim. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Say,  are  you  stringin'  me,  or  was  you  born 
yestiddy?" 

She  laughed  harshly  at  the  humor  of  such  a 
question. 

"I  don't  understand,"  was  all  Gloria  could 
reply. 


[287] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

GLORIA  had  not  been  reared  without 
an  understanding  of  the  various  lay- 
ers of  society.  Of  those  close  to  her 
own  station  in  life  she  had  an  intimate  and  in- 
telligent knowledge,  but  as  she  went  down  the 
scale  her  acquaintanceship  grew  slighter  and 
her  understanding  more  vague.  The  poor 
creatures  whom  as  a  class  Little  Ella  now  rep- 
resented to  her  were  almost  as  foreign  and  as 
misunderstood  as  would  be  a  lama  of  Thibet. 
Having  no  knowledge,  she  could  have  no  real 
pity. 

Gloria  had  never  dreamed,  even  when  she 
tried  to  put  the  worst  possible  construction  on 
what  few  things  she  knew,  that  the  world  could 
be  so  cruel.  Never  for  an  instant  had  she 
thought  that  it  was  possible  for  men  whom  she 
regarded  as  upright  and  honorable  to  be  en- 
gaged directly  or  indirectly  in  exploiting  vice 

[238] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

and  ignorance.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her 
that  men  whom  she  might  know,  some  of  them, 
owned  dreary  blocks  of  hovels  and  tenements 
from  which  high  rents  were  secured  only  be- 
cause the  people  who  lived  in  them  were  not 
respectable.  Poor  and  honest  tenants  could 
have  paid  but  poor  and  precarious  rents. 

As  Little  Ella  told  her  story  of  the  "system" 
at  Gloria's  request,  her  voice  grew  shriller  and 
shriller  as  the  indictment  grew  graver.  She 
talked  rapidly,  sometimes  turning  aside  from 
the  direct  channel  of  her  revelation,  to  explore 
some  little  eddy  of  a  specific  instance  which 
made  her  account  a  reality.  Gloria  could  have 
credited  something  to  exaggeration  had  it  not 
been  that  just  at  the  moment  she  thought  the 
girl  was  beginning  to  draw  on  her  imagination 
some  incident  would  be  introduced  suddenly  to 
make  the  whole  thing  ghastly  real. 

For  the  first  time  the  daughter  of  David 
Kerr  learned  of  the  peddlers  of  showy  dresses, 
the  venders  of  cheap  perfumery,  the  stealthy 
disseminators  of  cocaine,  and  the  many  other 
leeches  that  fatten  on  the  unfortunate  of  the 

[2391 


THE  DAUGHTER 

underworld.  She  learned  that  all  the  misery 
was  but  a  monument  to  human  greed.  Noth- 
ing was  exploited  in  which  there  was  not  a 
profit  of  three  or  four  hundred  percent. 
Nothing  was  exploited  which  did  not  tend  to 
kill  the  finer  feelings,  reducing  the  poor  vic- 
tims in  time  to  the  level  of  brutes. 

"And  the  men  down  here,"  Little  Ella  cried, 
the  memory  of  the  good,  wholesome  men  whom 
she  had  known  in  her  earlier  life  coming  back  to 
smite  her,  "poor  ignorant  excuses  fer  men,  most 
of  'em — all  they  're  good  fer  is  to  steal  an'  lie 
an'  live  oflP  us  women,  an'  vote  the  way  the  boss 
tells  'em  on  'lection  day.  An'  who  's  responsi- 
ble fer  that?  Say?"  Gloria  could  make  no 
reply,  and  Ella,  whose  pause  had  been  rhetori- 
cal, uncouth  as  she  was,  made  answer  herself. 
"I  know.  The  fine  gentlemen  what  buys  the 
votes.  An'  when  they  needs  more  money  fer 
more  votes  they  send  the  p'Hce  'round,  an'  us 
poor  girls  has  to  pay,  always  pay." 
"I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing." 
"I  tol'  you  you  did  n't  know.  Why,  oncet 
I  was  good  like  you,  too.     An'  now,"  she  began 

[240] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

to  sob — "now — I  'm  down — an'  I  can't  git  up, 
I  can't  git  up.     It 's  too  late." 

Suddenly  Gloria  remembered  the  power  to 
which  she  would  appeal.  Where  a  minute  be- 
fore had  been  darkness  and  uncertainty  was 
now  the  clearness  of  a  summer  day. 

"It's  never  too  late,"  she  insisted.  "Re- 
member, I  'm  not  alone.  My  father  will  help 
me.  He  's  brave  and  good  and  strong,  with  a 
heart  of  gold.  I  can't  change  the  world's 
ways,  maybe,  but  I  can  do  something  to  make 
Belmont  better  with  my  father's  help — and 
yours." 

Gloria  was  a  doughty  Crusader,  and  was 
eager  to  plunge  at  once  into  the  work  of  re- 
form. She  was  going  to  permit  her  father 
to  be  a  ways  and  means  committee,  but  she  in- 
tended to  have  a  thorough  grasp  of  the  whole 
situation  herself. 

"Why  do  you  pay  this — this  blackmail?" 
Gloria  demanded. 

"I  've  got  to  live.  What  else  can  I  do — 
now?     I  'm  down,  an'  in  debt." 

"But  they  can't  keep  you  from  living." 

1«  [241] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"They  can  send  me  to  the  workhouse." 
And  at  the  thought  Little  Ella  shuddered. 

"Whom  does  this  money  go  to?  I  want  to 
get  that  part  of  it  absolutely  straight  so  I  can 
tell  father." 

"It  goes  to  the  boss,  of  course." 

Little  Ella  made  this  statement  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  manner.  The  methods  of  the  "system" 
were  so  notorious  that  she  did  not  have  to  think 
a  moment  before  giving  her  answer. 

The  boss.  Here  was  a  factor  in  the  game 
of  which  Gloria  as  yet  had  had  no  inkling. 
The  boss.  What  does  he  do?  Now  she  de- 
sired to  know  about  this  boss. 

"The  boss?"  Both  the  tone  of  her  ques- 
tion and  the  look  on  her  face  denoted  her 
interrogation. 

"Yes,  the  boss  gits  the  money."  Little  Ella 
saw  that  it  would  be  necessary  for  her  to  ex- 
plain. "I  thought  everybody  in  Belmont 
knowed  that.  I  gives  it  to  Noonan  mostly, 
but  sometimes  the  round-sergeant  collects,  an' 
sometimes  they  both  do." 

This  double  collection  was  n't  on  the  square, 

[242] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

but  what  was  she  to  do?  If  she  complained, 
she  knew  too  well  what  would  happen  to  her. 

"Who's  Noonan?" 

"Mike  Noonan?  He  runs  the  saloon  down 
stairs,  an'  rents  me  this  room.  He  gits  a  rake- 
off  from  'most  everybody  down  here." 

"He  must  be  a  rich  man." 

"Oh,  some — but  he  's  got  to  pass  a  lot  of  it 
on. 

"And  you  say  the  police  know  about  this?" 

Little  Ella  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  To 
Gloria  a  policeman  was  a  stalwart  individual 
with  white  gloves  who  halted  traffic  while  she 
crossed  the  avenue.  To  the  other  a  policeman 
was  an  enemy,  a  grafter  who  never  overlooked 
an  opportunity  to  feather  his  own  nest  or  line 
his  own  pocketbook.  The  best  that  she  ever 
could  say  for  any  one  of  them  was  that  he  was 
an  autocratic  rowdy.  Gloria's  simplicity  in 
asking  if  the  pohce  knew  of  this  tribute  caused 
her  to  reply: 

"They  ought  to — they  git  some  of  it.  Then 
the  man  higher  up  gits  his." 

"I  can't  believe  it.     When  you  get  well  I 

[243] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

want  you  to  come  and  tell  my  father  all  this. 
He  is — ^he  's  an  influential  man.  I  'm  sure 
he  '11  help  you.  He  shall  help  you,"  she  ad- 
ded decisively,  "and  every  poor,  unhappy 
person  down  here,  because  I  shall  tell  him  to." 

Little  Ella  looked  at  her,  all  admiration  for 
such  power. 

"Gee!  I  wisht  I  had  a  pa  like  youm,"  was 
all  that  she  could  say. 

"He  can't  know  that  such  things  are  hap- 
pening— here — every  day  in  Belmont." 

"If  he  did,  I  reckon  he  would  n't  tell  you." 
Little  Ella  was  more  conversant  with  the  ways 
of  the  world. 

"And  what  did  you  say  finally  becomes  of 
this  money  you  have  to  pay?" 

"The  boss  gits  it." 

"Oh,  yes.  This  boss — who  is  he?  What 
does  he  do  to  earn  this  money?" 

"That 's  what  he  gits  fer  pertectin'  us.  He 
keeps  the  bulls  from  juggin'  us." 

"And  if  you  don't  pay?" 

"He  gives  'em  the  tip  an'  we  're  hauled  in, 
and  sent  up  for  thirty  days." 

[244] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

This  did  n't  accord  with  Gloria's  idea  of  law 
and  justice.  Here  was  a  man  who,  without 
authority  and  as  his  whim  dictated,  arrested 
people  because  they  would  not  do  something 
unlawful.  And  the  police,  instead  of  being 
instruments  of  the  law,  were  under  the  direc- 
tion of  this  boss. 

"Can't  the  law  touch  him?"  she  asked. 

"Huh!     He  's  the  law  in  this  town." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  there  is  a  man  so 
base,"  demanded  the  daughter  of  David  Kerr 
indignantly,  "this  boss,  that  spends  his  time 
collecting  this  money?" 

Little  Ella  had  come  to  realize  soon  after 
they  had  met  that  she  was  dealing  with  a  fledg- 
ling. Hence  she  bore  with  her  and  answered 
her  questions  patiently. 

"Gosh!  Little  time  he  spends  collecting 
money  down  here."  Her  tone  indicated  clearly 
that  he  spent  no  time  at  all.  "What 's  the  cops 
fer?  What 's  Mike  Noonan  fer?  He  's  got 
other  things  to  do  himself.  I  oncet  knowed  a 
young  lawyer,  an'  he  tol'  me  the  boss  got  his 
from  the  big  gamblin'  houses,  an'  the  street  car 

[245] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

comp'ny,  an'  the  'lectric  light  comp'ny,  an'  big 
things  like  that." 

"Then  you  're  just  a  drop  in  the  bucket." 
The  magnitude  of  the  "system"  was  just  be- 
ginning to  dawn  on  Gloria.  She  now  saw  that 
its  ramifications  were  many,  that  there  must  be 
much  that  even  this  woman,  for  all  her  knowl- 
edge, could  know  little  of.  While  she  could 
not  learn  all  from  Little  Ella,  she  could  learn 
enough  to  make  her  father  investigate. 

"There  's  enough  of  us  drops  in  Belmont  to 
fill  a  pretty  big  bucket,"  the  girl  admitted. 
"Gimme  a  drink  o'  water,  will  you?  I  never 
was  so  dry  at  a  Dutch  picnic." 

Gloria  poured  a  glass  of  water  for  her. 
Then,  feeling  that  she  had  not  been  consider- 
ate in  asking  the  girl  to  tax  her  little  strength 
by  the  recital  of  a  story  that  sadly  wasted  her 
vital  energy,  she  begged  her  to  rest. 

"You  're  still  a  bit  feverish.  Lie  down  now 
and  rest.  Try  to  go  to  sleep,  and  I  '11  sit  here 
and  read." 

Soon  her  patient  seemed  to  sleep,  and  Gloria 
picked  up  a  book  and  tried  to  read.     The  rev- 

[246] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

elations  to  which  she  had  listened  made  all  pos- 
sibility of  concentration  upon  the  printed  page 
out  of  the  question.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to 
her  that  she  did  not  know  the  boss's  name. 
Just  as  this  came  into  her  mind,  the  girl  turned 
restlessly  and  opened  her  eyes.  Finding  that 
she  was  awake,  Gloria  asked: 

"Tell  me,  what 's  the  name  of  the  boss?" 

"Eh?  What?"  Little  Ella  was  not  thor- 
oughly awake. 

"What 's  the  name  of  the  boss?  I  want  to 
tell  father." 

"His  name?  Oh!  it's  Kerr.  He's  ol' 
Dave  Kerr.     Ever  hear  of  him?" 

Having  roused  herself  sufficiently  to  answer 
the  question,  Little  Ella  sank  again  into  a 
doze. 

As  for  Gloria,  it  almost  seemed  that  the 
words  meant  nothing  to  her  at  all.  So  slowly 
did  her  mind  accept  this  intelligence  that  the 
fall  of  the  book  unnoticed  to  the  floor  did  not 
seem  related  in  point  of  time.  Yet  in  fact  it 
told  that  her  mind  waS  intent  upon  one  ques- 
tion:    Who  was  the  boss  of  Belmont? 

[247] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Kerr!  Kerr!  Old  Dave  Kerr,"  still  rang 
in  her  ears.  "The  boss?  David  Kerr?  I 
wonder  what  relation — ."  The  very  ignominy 
of  the  thought  restrained  her.  "No,  no,  no. 
It  *s  all  a  mistake.  It  can't  be —  I  could  n*t 
beheve  it.  There  can't  be  anj?^  relation  of  my 
father's — ^my  fa —  It 's  absurd.  It  would  be 
maddening,  the  suspicion  of  such  a  thing. 
Why,  my  father  's  the  soul  of  honor." 

Without  warning,  Joe  Wright  came  into  her 
mind;  Joe  Wright,  her  evil  genius. 

"What  did  the  paper  say?  'The  king  of 
underhand  manipulators,  David  Kerr!'  The 
king!"  she  muttered  aloud,  and  clapped  her 
hand  over  her  mouth  at  the  word.  The 
thought  of  such  a  thing  widened  her  eyes  with 
terror  and  set  her  heart  to  beating  high  with 
sudden  fear.  "But  not  this,  O  God!  Not 
this." 

She  repeated  the  pathetic  words  of  Little 
Ella. 

"  'There  's  enough  of  us  drops  in  Belmont  to 
fill  a  pretty  big  bucket' — oh,  it  can't  be  my 

[248] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

father!  It  can't  be  my  father! — He  has  a 
daughter — It 's  all  a  horrid  mistake.  There 
must  be  another  David  Kerr,  I  'm  sure." 

Gloria  sprang  from  her  chair  and  seized  the 
sleeping  woman  roughly  by  the  arm. 

"Listen  to  me.  Tell  me  something  more  of 
David  Kerr." 

She  shook  Little  Ella  into  a  conscious  state 
and  repeated  the  question. 

"Which  David  Kerr  is  it?" 

"There  's  only  one  I  know  of,"  answered 
Ella.  "He  *s  got  a  real  estate  office  on  Fifth 
Street." 

"What!" 

The  net  of  circumstance  was  being  drawn 
tighter  and  tighter  about  one  man,  and  that 
man  her  father. 

"Are  you  sure  he  's  the  man,  girl?" 

Gloria  asked  the  question  in  as  subdued  a 
manner  as  possible.  Suddenly  she  had  become 
afraid.     She  did  not  wish  to  arouse  suspicion. 

"Sure,  he  's  the  man."  It  tried  one's  pa- 
tience to  be  roused  from  sleep,  and  then  to  meet 

[249] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

with  contradiction  was  enough  to  make  one 
petulant.  To  settle  the  question  so  that  she 
could  go  back  to  sleep.  Little  Ella  added: 

"Look  on  my  bureau  and  you  '11  see  a  pro- 
gramme of  the  Dave  Kerr  Demmycratic  Club 
Ball." 

Gloria  walked  over  to  the  bureau  with  its 
jumble  of  odds  and  ends,  and  began  to  turn 
over  the  things  mechanically. 

"No,  not  that.  Look  behind  that  photy- 
graft.  That 's  it.  That 's  his  picture  on  the 
front." 

Gloria  gave  one  look.  The  picture  was  that 
of  her  father. 

For  a  time  Little  Ella  chattered  drowsily, 
but  Gloria  did  not  hear.  She  was  prostrated 
by  a  grief  that  numbed  her  every  faculty. 
The  foundation  of  her  faith  had  been  swept 
away. 

What  she  beheld  seemed  to  burn  itself  into 
her  brain.  On  the  cover  of  the  programme 
were  the  words:  "Annual  Ball.  David  Kerr 
Democratic  Club,"  and  the  picture  of  her 
father.     It  was  the  truth;  her  father  was  the 

[250] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

boss  of  Belmont.  So  different  was  her  posi- 
tion from  that  pinnacle  on  which  she  had 
thought  herself  to  be  that  the  whole  world 
would  have  to  go  through  a  revolutionary  ori- 
entation. There  was  nothing  in  her  life  which 
would  not  have  to  be  adjusted  anew  because  of 
this  revelation. 

As  she  turned  the  pages  of  the  programme, 
pages  filled  with  liquor  and  saloon  advertise- 
ments, her  thoughts  were  all  of  herself.  Re- 
sentment and  anger  there  were,  directed 
toward  her  father,  but  now  in  the  first  mo- 
ments when  she  saw  herself  as  Belmont  saw 
her,  humiliation  conquered  all  other  emotions. 
Her  first  thought  of  Joe  Wright  was  that  he 
had  kept  the  truth  from  her.  She  could  not 
grow  more  sick  at  heart,  comparative  feeling 
was  out  of  the  question  because  she  was  com- 
pletely crushed,  but  she  saw  as  in  a  book  that 
had  been  written  and  laid  away  as  finished,  the 
sacrifice  he  had  made  for  her,  the  supreme  re- 
nunciation he  had  made  because  he  would  not 
denounce  her  father  before  her. 

The  thought  of  how  different  her  home-com- 

[251] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

ing  had  been  from  what  she  had  planned  made 
her  laugh  hysterically.  Then  when  she  re- 
called the  few  staunch  friends  she  had  made 
she  clutched  wildly  at  the  hope  that  after  all 
it  was  untrue. 

**It  's  a  lie,  every  word  of  it,  a  lie  his  enemies 
invent.  What  big  man  but  has  about  him  en- 
vious wasps  that  prick  and  sting?  Judge  Gil- 
bert, Mr.  Kendall,  Dr.  Hayes,  they  '11  all  say 
that  he— Joe  Wright  I  What  of  him  ?  What 
will  he  say?" 

She  put  this  man  that  had  loved  her  in  one 
balance  and  the  other  men  in  the  other.  He 
outweighed  them  all,  and  the  momentary  hope 
was  gone.  She  could  see  it  all  now.  As  the 
baffling  attitude  of  Belmont  revealed  itself  to 
her  bit  by  bit  she  buried  her  face  in  her  arms 
and  sobbed. 

"And  I  was  so  proud,  oh,  so  proud !"  moaned 
the  daughter  of  David  Kerr.  "Joe!  Joe! 
You  did  love  me! — I  sent  him  away,  and  I 
never  understood.  Now  I  can  see  it  all.  The 
,  social  slights — the  cold  disdain  I  could  not  un- 
derstand— the  whispers  that  died  away  before 

[252] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

they  reached  my  ears — all,  all,  all  because  I 
was  David  Kerr's  daughter,  David  Kerr,  the 
boss  of  Belmont." 

Her  father's  name  exercised  a  fascination 
over  her.  Again  and  again  she  repeated  it, 
her  lips  curling  with  scorn. 

"David  Kerr,  the  boss  of  Belmont!"  she 
cried  with  a  contempt  that  wrung  her  heart. 
"David  Kerr,  the  king  of  underhand  manipu- 
lators! David  Kerr,  the  man  these  wretched 
women  look  to  for  protection — and  pay  him 
for  it!" 

This  new  thought  was  a  poisoned  arrow  that 
sank  into  her  heart.  As  she  dwelt  upon  it  her 
eyes  fell  upon  her  handsome  tailored  coat  and 
her  beautiful  hat  she  had  laid  aside. 

"And  with  the  money  these  unhappy  crea- 
tures pay,  he — he — God  in  Heaven!  Where 
did  the  money  come  from  for  these  clothes  I 
wear  ?  What  shall  I  do  ?  All  these  years,  and 
I  never  knew!" 

Where  the  money  came  from  to  pay  for  her 
handsome  clothes  wracked  her  as  poignantly 
as  would  a  great  physical  pain.     Her  thoughts 

[253] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

were  incoherent,  skipping  from  one  horrid 
phase  of  the  situation  to  another.  Though 
they  were  disconnected,  they  were  not  vague. 
Each  was  a  ruthless  view  of  her  deplorable 
position. 

"Why  did  he  let  me  come  home?  How 
can  I  bear  to  have  any  one  look  at  me  on  the 
street?  I  can  hear  them  now  saying,  'That 's 
she,  the  boss's  daughter.  See  her  fine  clothes. 
We  know  where  the  money  came  from  to  buy 
them.'  And  I,  like  a  leper,  must  ever  cry, 
'Unclean,  unclean,'  and  see  those  whom  I 
would  love  flee  ever  on  before  me." 

This  made  her  think  again  of  Joe  Wright. 
Surely  he  had  loved  her  beyond  all  reason  to 
have  wished  to  marry  her,  the  daughter  of  such 
a  man. 

"Joe,  poor  old  Joe,  how  he  has  suffered  be- 
cause of  me."  She  had  chosen  in  her  blind- 
ness not  to  listen  to  him  and  now  he  was  gone 
forever.  She  had  obeyed  the  dictation  of 
pride  and  stifled  the  prompting  of  love,  and 
now  her  punishment  seemed  greater  than  she 
could  bear.     "He  did  love  me.     He  knew,  and 

[254] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

still  loved  me.  And  I  drove  him  away. 
Well,  it  was  better  so;  but  he  did  love  mc — 
once.     It 's  better  so — for  him." 

It  was  now  a  far  more  grievous  prospect 
than  that  of  the  long  years  which  had  con- 
fronted her  when  she  had  realized  the  previous 
day  how  solitary  was  to  be  her  way.  Then 
she  had  had  position,  power,  and  pride;  now 
these  had  been  stripped  from  her,  and  nothing 
had  been  given  in  their  stead.  In  a  passion- 
ate flood  of  tears  she  sank  to  the  floor  and  cried 
as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Through  it  all  Little  Ella  slept,  Bot  know- 
ing that  in  her  room  was  being  enacted  a  trag- 
edy of  the  heart  more  profound  than  any  she 
with  all  her  shallowness  could  live  in  a  century 
of  heartaches. 


[255] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

GRIEF  made  Gloria  insensible  to  the 
flight  of  time,  and  how  long  she  had 
been  prostrate  on  the  floor  before 
sounds  on  the  stairs  aroused  her  she  did  not 
know.  Thinking  that  it  must  be  Mrs.  Hayes 
returning  with  a  physician,  she  rose  hastily  and 
tried  to  remove  all  traces  of  her  tears.  She 
wished  above  all  to  avoid  explanations,  and  if 
none  was  asked  she  did  not  wish  to  have  her 
grief  misconstrued.  But  it  was  not  Mrs. 
Hayes,  for  Gloria  could  hear  the  heavy  tread 
ascending  to  the  floor  above. 

Little  Ella  was  restless  and  rolled  and  tossed 
in  her  sleep.  The  daughter  of  David  Kerr 
looked  with  pity  upon  her.  Her  discipline 
was  too  new,  her  spirit  was  still  too  untamed 
for  her  to  understand  fully  the  kinship  of  the 
human  race.  Although  she  recognized  that 
she  was  herself  without  the  caste  she  thought 

[256] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

was  hers,  she  had  not  come  to  know  that  on  the 
last  great  day  there  would  be  only  the  judg- 
ment of  the  just  and  the  unjust,  not  of  the 
high  and  the  low,  of  the  rich  and  the  poor,  of 
the  wise  and  the  ignorant,  of  the  master  and 
the  servant. 

"Poor  girl,"  murmured  Gloria,  "you  shall 
see  that  I  do  understand." 

There  was  also  much  which  she  could  learn 
from  this  bit  of  flotsam  cast  up  by  an  unkind 
sea  upon  a  cheerless  shore.  Seeing  that  Lit- 
tle Ella  was  not  sleeping  soundly,  her  desire 
to  know  more  got  the  better  of  her  duty  as  a 
nurse.  She  shook  her  gently,  and  soon  was 
rewarded  by  seeing  her  eyes  open. 

"What  you  want?"  asked  the  patient. 

"Time  to  take  your  medicine,"  Gloria  an- 
swered unblushingly.  This  was  only  a  sub- 
terfuge, and  it  hurt  her  to  receive  the  profuse 
thanks  which  it  evoked. 

"How  are  we  going  to  begin  to  make  things 
right  down  here?"  Gloria  asked  when  Little 
Ella  had  sunk  back  upon  her  pillow. 

"Begin?"     The  girl  did  not  understand. 
17  [257] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Yes,  you  and  I.  Things  can't  go  on  as 
they  are." 

"Why,  begin  with  the  boss,  of  course." 

Gloria  could  not  have  been  stabbed  by  a 
more  cruel  reply. 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  sighed,  "but  how?" 

"That 's  up  to  you  and  yer  pa." 

Little  Ella  recognized  that  the  boss  was  out 
of  her  sphere  of  influence. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.  Tell  me — does — David 
Kerr,"  she  spoke  the  name  with  an  effort, 
"ever — come  down  here?" 

"Him?  Naw.  We  never  see  nothin'  o* 
him."  His  daughter  gave  a  sigh  of  rehef. 
"We  don'  know  nothin'  'bout  him  much.  We 
don't  see  him,  but  we  feel  him.  He  lives  alone, 
out  in  the  country." 

"Then  can  he  really  know?" 

"He's  a  man,  ain't  he?"  demanded  the 
woman  of  the  streets  fiercely.  "He  knows, 
but  what  does  he  care?  I  wisht  he  had  a 
daughter." 

"What 's  that?"  Gloria  asked.  The  manner 
in  which  Little  Ella  had  spoken  made  her 

[258] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

catch  her  breath  with  a  feehng  that  was  akin 
to  dread. 

"I  wisht  he  had  a  daughter,  an'  that  she  'd 
have  to  suffer  what  we  down  here  suffer." 

Gloria  held  up  her  hand,  bidding  her  cease 
from  even  thinking  such  a  thing. 

"No,  no,  no,  not  that.'* 

"Why  not?"  the  other  went  on  doggedly. 
"Could  she  be  any  better 'n  I  was  oncet?  I 
tell  you,  I  'd  like  to  have  a  daughter  of  his 
here,  and  watch  her  struggle  to  keep  the  breath 
in  her  body." 

"Have  you  no  mercy?"  begged  Gloria. 

"What  mercy  hev  I  had  shown  me  by 
Noonan — 'cept  fer  his  own  profit?  What 
mercy  from  David  Kerr?  Wouldn't  he 
laugh  to  see  a  daughter  o'  his  in  this  hell-hole?" 
Gloria  convulsively  covered  her  eyes  with  her 
hands  as  if  to  shut  out  even  the  thought  of 
such  a  sight.  Little  Ella  went  on  harshly, 
"What  a  joke  it  would  be!  But  I  'd  laugh. 
I  'd  watch  her,  the  little  darling,  to  see  that 
she  paid  the  price  as  I  've  done." 

Gloria  could  stand  it  no  longer. 

[259] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Stop,  you  senseless  girl.  You  make  a 
mockery  of  pity  and  compassion.  It  *s  ab- 
surd to  vent  your  rage  upon  something  that 
does  n't  exist.     David  Kerr  has  no  daughter." 

Little  Ella  accepted  this  answer  without 
question,  unmindful  that  a  short  while  before 
her  visitor  had  denied  all  knowledge  of  the 
man. 

"I  wisht  he  had,"  she  said  regretfully. 

A  door  slammed  suddenly  overhead. 

"Aren't  you  afraid  here  alone?"  Gloria 
asked. 

"Naw.  I  ain't  scared  in  the  daytime,  an' 
at  night  I  'm  out  most  o'  the  time." 

The  sound  of  a  scuffle  on  the  floor  above 
brought  both  women  to  attention.  There 
came  a  sudden,  smothered  cry  for  help  which 
made  Gloria's  blood  run  cold.  Then  there 
was  a  heavy  thud  as  if  some  one  had  been  felled 
by  a  blow, 

"What's  it  all  about?"  she  cried,  springing 
to  her  feet  in  terror. 

"Nothin'.  Stay  where  you  are.  We  're 
safe  as  long  as  we  don'  open  that  door." 

[260] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

The  sounds  of  the  affray  grew  louder. 
Again  came  the  cry  for  help. 

"What 's  going  on  ?  I  must  know.  Some 
one  's  in  trouble.  Did  n't  you  hear  some  one 
call?" 

"They  're  maybe  just  foolin.'  "  Ella  was 
listening  intently.     "Don't  you  butt  in." 

"But  I  can't  stand  here  doing  nothing.  I 
must  see  what 's  the  matter." 

One  could  never  accuse  Gloria  of  lack  of 
courage.  She  had  never  seen  the  horse  she 
was  afraid  of,  and  a  sailboat  in  a  heavy  sea 
made  her  laugh  the  more,  the  louder  the  wind 
whistled  through  the  rigging.  Her  feeling  of 
personal  power,  inherited  from  her  father,  had 
been  strongly  developed.  She  had  by  this 
time  overcome  her  first  fear,  and  now  she  in- 
tended to  know  what  the  trouble  was  all  about. 
Some  one  was  in  distress  and  to  do  what  she 
could  was  her  one  thought  as  she  started  to- 
ward the  door. 

"Better  not  open  that  door,"  Little  Ella 
pleaded. 

Even  as  she  spoke,  they  heard  a  door  slam 

[261] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

at  the  head  of  the  stairs  above.  Some  one 
lurched  heavily  to  the  stairway,  and  then  to 
their  horror — they  knew  it  by  the  sound  just 
as  well  as  if  the  scene  had  been  enacted  before 
their  eyes — the  man  tripped  and  plunged  down 
the  narrow  stairs. 

"I  must  know  what  *s  going  on,"  Gloria 
cried. 

She  rushed  across  the  room  and  wrenched 
open  the  door.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairway 
just  before  her  was  the  body  of  a  man,  limp 
and  motionless. 

"It 's  a  man.  He  's  hurt,"  she  called  back 
to  the  sick  woman  as  she  knelt  to  examine 
him. 

He  had  fallen  so  that  she  could  not  get  a 
good  look  at  him  in  the  dark  hallway,  and  she 
rolled  him  toward  the  door  to  get  him  on  his 
back  and  see  his  face.  As  she  gazed  upon 
his  countenance  the  fingers  of  death  itself 
seemed  to  seize  her  by  the  throat.  Her  heart 
gave  one  great  leap  and  then  stood  still.  On 
the  floor  before  her  lay  the  body  of  the  man 
she  loved, 

T262J 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"Joe!"  she  screamed.  "What  are  you  do- 
ing here?    Joe,  Joe,  speak  to  me!" 

But  there  was  no  answer.  His  eyes  were 
closed,  and  the  pallor  of  death  seemed  to  be 
upon  his  face. 

With  strength  beyond  what  she  had  ever 
known  herself  to  possess,  Gloria  seized  the  mo- 
tionless form  and  dragged  and  rolled  the  man 
into  Little  Ella's  room.  Before  she  turned 
to  him  again  she  closed  and  bolted  the  door. 
Then  she  bent  over  him  and  begged  him  to 
speak  to  her,  to  open  his  eyes  and  know  that 
she  was  with  him. 

"Joe,  don't  you  know  me?"  she  pleaded. 
Then  to  Little  Ella,  "He  's  dead,  he  's  dead. 
See,  he  does  n't  move." 

"Yes,  he  does,"  answered  the  other  woman. 
She  had  been  sitting  up  in  bed,  an  excited  spec- 
tator of  all  that  had  transpired.  "He 's 
breathin'.  Tear  open  his  shirt  and  feel  his 
heart  beat.'* 

Wright  was  a  pitiable  object  as  he  lay  on 
the  floor  like  one  dead.  His  coat  and  waist- 
coat were  gone,  and  his  collar  and  cravat  had 

[263] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

been  torn  away.  On  his  white  shirt  were 
bloody  stains.  Gloria  felt  for  his  heart  and 
was  rewarded  by  its  feeble  beat.  She  next 
dashed  water  from  the  pitcher  over  his  face, 
but  without  avail.  He  showed  no  signs  of  re- 
turning consciousness.  From  a  wound  just 
above  his  temple  on  the  right  side  of  his  head 
the  blood  began  to  trickle  down  over  his  face, 
making  its  pallor  all  the  more  ghastly.  She 
had  no  means  of  knowing  how  serious  this  was, 
and  naturally  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
was  a  death-wound.  There  was  only  one  thing 
to  do:  get  a  physician. 

As  she  started  to  her  feet  she  heard  two  men 
running  down  the  stairs  and  making  a  search 
from  room  to  room  on  her  floor.  These  must 
be  the  men  who  had  attacked  him.  She  could 
not  let  him  fall  into  their  hands,  and  there- 
fore she  could  not  leave  him  to  go  for  aid.  The 
impotence  of  her  position  made  her  feel  like 
screaming  to  relieve  the  nervous  strain. 

"What  do  you  know  about  this?  How  did 
he  come  here?    What  has  happened  to  him?" 

[264] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"I  dunno,"  answered  the  woman.  "There  's 
somethin'  doin'  all  the  time  in  this  dump." 

A  sudden  knock  at  the  bolted  door  chilled 
Gloria  with  terror. 

"What's  that?"  she  whispered 

"Somebody  's  at  the  door,"  replied  Little 
Ella,  in  the  same  low  tone.  This  fact  was 
obvious. 

"They  can't  come  in,"  Gloria  continued. 

Again  came  the  knocking,  louder  and  more 
insistent. 

"I  can't  let  anything  happen  to  him,"  mur- 
mured the  unhappy  girl  in  agony,  remember- 
ing how  the  day  before  she  had  demanded 
that  he  be  punished.  "Joe,  Joe,  what  does  it 
all  mean  ?" 

But  Wright  made  no  answer.  He  lay  like 
a  log  as  the  girl  he  had  loved  bent  over  him, 
wiped  the  blood  from  his  face,  and  brushed 
back  his  disheveled  hair. 

With  the  next  knock  came  the  voice  of  a 
man  demanding  entrance. 

"Ella,  Ella,  open  this  door." 

[265] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

Gloria  rushed  over  to  the  bed. 

"Tell  him  you  can't  get  out  of  bed,'*  she  im- 
plored in  a  whisper.  "Tell  him  there  's  nobody 
here." 

"I  can't  git  out  o'  bed.  There 's  nobody 
here,"  Little  EUa  called. 

This  answer  did  not  pacify  the  man. 

"That 's  a  lie,"  he  shouted.  "There  's  some- 
body in  there  or  the  door  would  n't  be  locked. 
Open  this  door,  do  you  hear  me,  or  I  '11  bust 
it  down." 

The  tone  of  his  voice  made  Gloria  feel  that 
he  would  make  good  his  threat.  There  in  the 
center  of  the  room  in  full  view  lay  the  man 
whom  they  were  seeking.  Once  they  burst 
the  single  barrier  they  would  be  upon  him,  to 
do  what  further  harm  she  knew  not.  It  might 
be  that  he  was  now  already  bej^ond  all  human 
aid.  He  still  breathed,  however,  and  Gloria 
was  willing  to  fight  if  there  was  even  only  one 
chance  in  his  favor.  Hence  .it  would  not  do 
for  them  to  find  him  the  minute  they  broke 
down  the  door.  She  must  hide  him  somewhere 
to  give  her  time  to  parley  with  his  assailants. 

[266] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

She  looked  vainly  about  for  some  place  to  put 
him. 

"For  God's  pity,  help  me  hide  him,"  she  be- 
seeched.  *'I  can't  give  him  up.  A^Tiere  does 
that  door  lead  to?"  She  pointed  to  the  door 
close  by  the  one  which  led  into  the  hall. 

"That 's  only  a  closet  under  the  stairway," 
was  Little  Ella's  whispered  explanation. 
"They  'd  find  him  there  in  a  minute." 

"You  would  n't  let  them  kill  him,  would 
you?" 

"I  can't  help  you.  I  'm  so  weak  I  can 
hardly  turn  over  in  bed." 

"Open  this  door,  I  say,"  came  from  the  man 
without  as  he  pounded  on  the  door  ominously, 
"or  I  '11  crack  you  over  the  head." 

Gloria  understood  that  there  was  no  time  to 
temporize.  She  must  do  something  and  that 
quickly.  Close  by  where  she  stood  next  the 
bed,  and  on  the  side  away  from  the  door,  was 
Little  Ella's  trunk.  Behind  it  on  hooks  hung 
a  number  of  garments,  and  on  a  chair  were 
more  clothes.  It  was  the  only  chance,  and 
Gloria  took  it. 

[267] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

How  she  ever  managed  to  get  him,  a  dead 
weight,  across  the  intervening  space  and  safely- 
stowed  behind  the  trunk  she  never  knew.  She 
dragged,  she  hauled,  she  pulled,  she  rolled,  and 
the  forlorn  hope  that  she  would  save  him  yet 
gave  her  strength.  As  she  snatched  skirts 
from  the  hooks  and  all  the  clothing  from  the 
chair  to  pile  upon  him,  the  pounding  upon  the 
door  became  more  and  more  vindictive.  The 
girl  was  out  of  breath,  but  as  she  bent  over  the 
prostrate  form  of  the  man  she  loved,  she  man- 
aged to  gasp: 

"Joe,  listen,  listen  to  me.  If  you  can  hear 
me,  dear,  listen.  Don't  you  stir,  don't  you 
make  a  sound  until  I  come  to  you.  Can  you 
hear  me,  Joe?"  But  he  was  deaf  to  all  en- 
treaties. Seeing  this  was  so,  she  turned  to 
Little  Ella.  "Get  him  to  go  away.  Offer 
him  anything,  promise  him  anything.  I  '11  do 
it ;  only  keep  that  man  on  the  other  side  of  that 
door." 

"There 's  at  least  two  of  'em." 

"That  does  n't  matter — a  thousand — it 's  all 
the  same.     Get  them  to  go  away." 

[268] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

This  was  easier  said  than  done,  but  Little 
Ella  was  willing  to  make  the  effort. 

"You  git  away  from  that  door,  an'  leave  me 
alone." 

"Open  this  door,  you  she-devil,"  threatened 
the  besieger,  "or  I  '11 — " 

And  then  interrupted  another  voice  with  a 
suggestion  that  made  Gloria  grow  faint. 

"Aw!  Let 's  bust  it  in.  He  's  in  there  all 
right." 

"Let  'er  go,"  answered  the  first  one. 

Then  came  the  heavy  thuds  as  the  men  threw 
themselves  against  the  door.  The  knocking 
at  the  gate  in  "Macbeth"  had  no  more  porten- 
tious  sound  in  the  play  than  had  this  attack 
upon  her  stronghold  to  Gloria.  She  felt  all 
the  nervousness  of  troops  under  fire  that  must 
remain  inactive  awaiting  orders.  There  was 
nothing  she  could  do  but  wait  until  the  door 
was  battered  down. 

This  was  not  long  in  hapj)ening.  As  she 
stood  in  front  of  the  trunk  nervously  twisting 
her  handkerchief  in  her  hands,  at  one  last 
mighty  effort  the  bolt  yielded,  the  door  flew 

[269] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

open  and  two  men  stumbled  into  the  room. 
Little  Ella  recognized  them  both  instantly. 
They  were  Buck  Kelly  and  Turkey  Ryan,  no- 
torious denizens  of  the  underworld.  If  ever 
there  were  two  vicious-looking  cutthroats,  these 
men  answered  their  descriptions.  To  make 
their  ruffianly  appearance  worse  they  bore 
the  marks  of  their  recent  encounter.  Kelly's 
left  eye  had  swelled  almost  closed,  and  Ryan 
had  a  long  cut  across  his  cheek  where  Wright's 
ring  had  left  its  mark  with  a  slashing  blow. 
He  had  done  even  more  damage  than  this,  but 
these  showed  the  plainest.  Needless  to  say, 
their  tempers  had  not  been  sweetened  by  the 
episode. 

"Now,  damn  you — "  Ryan  began  savagely. 

"Stop!"  Gloria  commanded.  "What  are 
you  doing  here?" 

Until  she  spoke  they  had  not  seen  her,  and 
both  men  were  taken  much  aback.  To  find  a 
lady  there  was  something  they  had  not  ex- 
pected. 

"What  the — "  Ryan  gasped,  but  checked 
himself  and  then  continued  in  a  slightly  more 

[270] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

respectful  tone.  "I  begs  yer  pardon,  miss, 
but  what  are  you  doin'  here?" 

"That 's  none  of  your  business.  You  clear 
out,  both  of  you." 

This  encouraged  Little  Ella  to  take  her  part 
in  the  discussion,  which  she  did  with  her  most 
strident  tones. 

"What  do  youse  mean,  buttin'  into  here? 
Beat  it,  you  two.  I  'm  a  lady,  an*  when  I  has 
a  lady  frien'  avisitin'  me  they  ain't  no  place 
for  bums.     On  yer  way." 

It  was  not  this  tirade  which  had  the  most 
effect  upon  them.  Both  quailed  before  Glo- 
ria, who  stood  eyeing  them  sternly.  Then 
they  looked  at  each  other,  and  without  a  word 
of  apology  shambled  out  into  the  hall. 


[271] 


CHAPTER  XX 

IF  Gloria  believed  that  she  had  put  to 
flight  for  all  time  such  gentlemanly  as- 
sassins as  Mr.  Kelly  and  Mr.  Ryan,  her 
feeling  of  triumph  did  not  last  long.  As  the 
door  into  the  hall  was  still  open  she  did  not  dare 
make  a  move  in  Wright's  direction.  She  de- 
termined to  close  the  door  and  pull  the  wash- 
stand  in  front  of  it,  wedging  it  under  the  knob, 
before  trying  further  to  succor  the  injured 
man.  When  she  walked  toward  the  door,  it 
again  framed  the  forms  of  Ryan  and  Kelly. 
As  a  result  of  a  short  conference  just  out  of 
earshot,  they  had  decided  to  return  and  get 
their  man. 

"What  do  you  want?"    Her  heart  sank. 

"We  're  lookin'  fer  a  man,"  Kelly  snarled. 

"An'  he  come  into  this  room,  too,"  Ryan 
added  doggedly.     "We  don't  want  to  make 

[272] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

you  uncomf'table,  lady,  but  we  gotta  git  that 
man." 

The  way  he  said  it  made  Gloria  feel  that  he 
meant  business.  All  she  could  do  was  play 
for  time  and  pray  for  Mrs.  Hayes  to  return. 

"There  's  no  man  here,"  she  explained  in  her 
most  winning  manner.  "You  can  see  that 
plainly  for  yourself.  I  came  over  from  the 
mission  to  take  care  of  this  sick  woman.  You 
are  only  making  her  worse  by  bursting  into 
her  room  in  such  a  rude  fashion.  Please  go 
out  gently;  she  must  have  it  perfectly  quiet." 

Turkey  Ryan  so  far  forgot  himself  in  the 
presence  of  his  betters  as  to  grin  at  this  expla- 
nation. 

"We  don't  want  to  have  to  make  you  give 
'im  up." 

This  threat  had  an  unpleasant  sound. 
Hitherto  the  girl  had  not  feared  for  her  own 
safety,  but  his  surly  remark  frightened  her. 
The  one  thing  that  kept  her  steadfast  was  the 
thought  that  she  was  protecting  the  man  she 
had  loved;  yes,  the  man  she  now  loved  more 
than  she  ever  had.  She  did  not  know  how  he 
18  [273] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

happened  to  be  there;  she  did  not  know  how 
he  regarded  her;  she  only  knew  that  she  loved 
him,  that  she  would  give  her  life  a  sacrifice  to 
save  him. 

Ryan  next  appealed  to  Little  Ella. 

"Ella,  that  guy  come  in  here.  Where  is  he? 
We  ain't  goin'  to  be  scared  by  any  fool  girl. 
She  don't  know  who  wants  him.  Now  give 
'im  up." 

"Don't  say  a  word,"  Gloria  told  her. 

"You  gotta  stick  by  us,  Ella.  This  ain't  no 
ordinary  job." 

At  Ryan's  injunction  to  stick  by  him,  Little 
Ella  seemed  to  waver. 

"Don'  you  fergit  who  yer  friends  are.  Who 
keeps  you  from  bein'  jugged?  Mike  Noonan. 
Who  lets  you  stay  here  when  you  can't  pay,  an' 
feeds  you?     Mike  Noonan." 

"That 's  so.     He  has  been  good  to  me." 

Gloria  was  quick  to  catch  the  note  of  inde- 
cision.    "But  now  I  'm  going  to  take  care  of 

you." 

"Yes,  goin'  to,  goin'  to,"  sneered  Kelly. 
"You  know  what  church  promises  is.     Don' 

.        [274] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

you  fergit  we  gotta  stan'  together  down  here, 
all  of  us." 

It  was  the  old,  old  appeal  of  class  to  serve  a 
selfish  end. 

"Yes,  that 's  true.  I  don'  want  to  say  any- 
thing, but—" 

Ryan  immediately  pressed  the  advantage  he 
thought  he  had  gained. 

"This  is  yer  chanct,  Ella.  You  know  what 
she  'd  say  to  you  if  you  was  in  her  house.  Are 
you  with  us?     I  '11  see  you  git  yours." 

It  was  a  moment  when  a  man's  life  was  at 
stake.  Gloria  believed  that  if  the  woman  told 
and  they  tore  Wright  from  her  she  might  never 
see  him  alive  again.  She  had  prayed  silently 
for  help  to  come,  but  she  was  still  alone.  Al- 
ready she  was  giving  up  hope  from  that  quar- 
ter and  was  conscious  that  upon  her  own  efforts 
in  all  probability  the  very  life  of  the  man 
she  loved  would  depend.  To  add  to  her  an- 
guish was  the  fear  that  he  might  regain  con- 
sciousness and  betray  himself  by  a  moan. 

Now  it  all  depended  upon  Little  Ella.  It 
had  been  a  clever  stroke,  that  of  Ryan's,  asking 

[2751 


THE  DAUGHTER 

her  how  she  would  be  treated  in  this  woman's 
home.  Against  this  appeal  to  class  prejudice 
Gloria  had  not  scored. 

"I  '11  tell,"  said  the  woman. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  and 
smiled. 

"Stop!"  cried  Gloria,  looking  not  at  the  men, 
but  at  the  girl  who  lay  pale  and  trembling  upon 
the  bed.  "Do  you  remember  what  you  said  a 
while  ago?  What  you  accused  me  of?  You 
swore  I  had  n't  loved.  Even  to  my  sorrow 
you  shall  have  proof  of  it  now  that  I  do.  The 
very  man  whom  I  'm  defending  from  these 
bullies  is  the  one  man  on  earth  I  love."  Ryan 
and  Kelly  looked  at  each  other  in  amazement. 
"You  shall  see  if  you  loved  more  than  I. 
You  've  gone  through  fire  and  storm  for  a  man  ? 
I  '11  do  no  less.  If  need  be,  I  '11  die  for  this 
man — here  and  now — because  I  love  him." 
The  fire  died  out  of  her  eyes.  She  stretched 
out  her  hands  to  Ella  pathetically  and  begged 
humbly,  "My  whole  heart's  happiness  is  here. 
Are  you  going  to  help  them  try  to  take  him 
from  me?" 

[276] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

The  woman,  a  creature  of  impulse,  was 
moved. 

"You  'd  better  give  it  up,  Turkey.  I  ain't 
goin'  to  let  you  touch  that  man." 

"Ah,  you  're  a  woman,"  sighed  Gloria. 
"You  know  a  woman's  heart." 

"Nix  on  that  love  spiel,  Ella,"  commanded 
Ryan.  "This  ain't  no  valentine  party,  lady. 
You  can't  fool  us  with  that  soft-soap  talk. 
We  gotta  carry  out  the  boss's  orders.  Buck, 
look  in  that  closet." 

Ryan  recognized  that  the  time  for  action  had 
come.  On  his  side  he  had  the  overwhelming 
brute  force  which  would  enable  him  to  do  as  he 
pleased.  Kelly  had  turned  to  look  into  the 
closet  when  he  was  stopped  by  Gloria's  out- 
burst. What  Ryan  had  said  had  reminded 
her  of  her  own  power. 

"Stand  where  you  are,  you  infamous  thugs  I 
Must  I  tell  you  the  truth  to  be  obeyed?  If 
you  are  above  the  law,  I  am  higher  still.  Mike 
Noonan  could  have  told  you  who  I  am.  You 
speak  of  your  boss,  then  learn  the  truth." 

"What  yer  givin'  us?"  jeered  Ryan  as  he 
[277] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

advanced  toward  the  place  where  Wright  lay 
hidden. 

"Stand  back,"  she  cried.  "I  am  Gloria 
Kerr." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  in  aston- 
ishment, and  Little  Ella  sat  bolt  upright  in 
bed. 

"The  boss's—" 

"Daughter,"  Gloria  finished  Ryan's  excla- 
mation. "I  am  the  daughter  of  David  Kerr. 
Now  go." 

Something  in  her  bearing  made  them  feel 
that  she  was  telling  the  truth.  Kelly,  timid 
now  and  apologetic,  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Well,  we  did  n't  know  you  was — why 
did  n't  you  say — " 

"I  guess  we  '11  go  see  Noonan,"  was  Ryan's 
method  of  beating  a  retreat. 

"He  can't  git  away,  anyway,"  Kelly  whis- 
pered to  him. 

Gloria  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  as  they 
turned  to  go,  but  in  an  instant  the  shrill  scream 
from  Ella  which  brought  the  men  back  to  the 
center  of  the  room  froze  her  blood. 

[2781 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"The  boss's  daughter!"  It  was  a  witch's 
screech  ending  in  a  peal  of  unearthly  laughter. 

Gloria  sank  into  a  chair  gasping,  "What 
have  I  said?" 

She  felt  the  curse  upon  her. 

"Come  back,  Turkey,  come  back,"  shrilled 
Little  Ella,  laughing  wildly.  "The  boss's 
daughter!     The  boss's  daughter!" 

Her  thin  hands  plucked  at  the  coverlid,  and 
her  blazing  ej^es  were  fixed  upon  Gloria,  who 
had  shrunk  into  a  weak  lump  in  her  chair. 
Only  a  few  moments  had  passed  since  all  had 
admitted  that  Little  Ella  dominated  the  situa- 
tion. That  fact  she  recognized  as  readily  as 
did  the  others.  Now  she  determined  to  make 
use  of  her  power.  Gloria  herself  had  aroused 
the  savagery  of  the  woman  by  having  inflamed 
her  against  the  boss,  not  knowing  that  the  crea- 
ture's rage  was  directed  against  her  own  fa- 
ther. 

Feverishly  stimulated  to  an  unaccustomed 
mental  acuteness  by  the  thoughts  of  lier  wrongs 
as  Gloria  had  laid  them  bare,  all  tlie  cru- 
elty of  the  woman's  nature  asserted  itself.    Re- 

[279] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

venge  with  her  was  sweetness  long  drawn  out. 
It  was  the  dainty  morsel  over  which  the 
gourmet  lingers.  It  was  the  tantalizing  antics 
of  the  cat  that  gloats  over  the  mouse  beneath 
its  paw,  and  even  lets  it  run  a  little  way  to 
arouse  the  wild  hope  that  it  may  yet  escape. 
Having  decided  upon  the  ultimate  disclosure 
of  Wright's  hiding  place,  Little  Ella  was  now 
bent  most  of  all  on  making  the  daughter  of  the 
boss  suffer  to  the  limit. 

"What 's  the  matter,  Ella?"  Ryan  asked. 

"Let  them  go,  I  say.  Please  let  them  go," 
Gloria  implored. 

"You  want  them  to  go,  do  you?  Ha!  Ha! 
The  boss's  daughter!     The  boss's  daughter!'* 

The  last  words  she  uttered  in  piercing 
tones  horrible  to  hear  as  she  swayed  back  and 
forth,  keeping  time  with  her  body  to  the  ca- 
dence of  her  cry. 

Gloria  tried  to  gather  herself  together  to 
meet  this  new  attack,  but  without  much  suc- 
cess. She  felt  so  weak  from  the  shock  that 
she  was  only  able  to  rise  from  her  chair  with 
difficulty. 

[280] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"You  're  out  of  your  head.  You  're  mad. 
Keep  still,  I  tell  you."  The  men  still  stand- 
ing irresolute,  she  turned  upon  them.  "Why 
are  you  standing  there?    Leave  this  room." 

Little  Ella  was  enjoying  herself  hugely. 
Gloria's  every  pleading  tone  was  music  in 
her  ears.  Her  eyes  burned  with  excitement. 
Yet  the  cruel  cat  delayed  to  crush  the  mouse. 
Its  quivering  was  too  soul-satisfying.  Realiz- 
ing that  if  she  admitted  Gloria  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  David  Kerr  the  men  would  forego  their 
pursuit  of  Wright,  Little  Ella  knew  her  best 
course  was  to  deny  the  relationship. 

"Don't  you  go,  Turkey,"  she  yelled.  "I  '11 
tell  you  the  truth."  She  turned  to  Gloria. 
"I  wisht  the  boss  had  a  daughter,  did  I? — It 's 
a  lie,  Turkey.  She  's  not  Dave  Kerr's  girl. 
He  'd  laugh  to  see  a  daughter  o'  his  in  such  a 
hell-hole.  I  'd  watch  her  to  see  that  she  paid 
the  price,"  she  glanced  at  Gloria  malevolently, 
"if — if  he  had  a  daughter.  An'  yer  pertectin' 
the  man  you  love !"  she  mocked.  "We  '11  see 
how  the  boss's  daughter  loves." 

Her  laughter  was  terrible.     The  men  could 

[281] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

not  think  her  the  same  woman  they  knew. 
Gloria  started  in  alarm.  She  felt  the  woman 
was  mad,  and  did  not  know  what  she  might  do. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  asked. 

Xow  Ella  was  sneering  at  her.  She  knew 
how  to  choose  knife-hlades  for  words.  In  ev- 
erything she  said  was  the  cunning  and  the 
cruelty  of  a  lost  woman.  Gloria  was  suffer- 
ing, she  could  see,  but  there  was  still  another 
chord  which  would  vibrate  to  misery.  Since 
time  began  jealousy  has  been  a  flaming  sword 
in  the  hands  of  an  unscrupulous  antagonist 
who  knows  how  to  use  it.  To  make  Gloria 
think  that  she  was  defending  a  man  untrue  to 
her,  was  something.  To  make  her  believe  that 
she  had  been  defeated  bj'^  the  greater  charm  of 
Little  Ella  herself,  was  far  more. 

"Do  you  think  I  'd  'a'  let  you  hid  that 
man  if  he  'd  loved  you?  Never.  You  don' 
know  why  he  come  here,  but  I  do.  He  come 
to  see  me.     He  loves  me," 

She  beat  her  breasts  as  she  spoke  to  empha- 
size her  words  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with  the 
challenge  she  had  just  hurled  at  the  daughter 

[282] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

of  the  boss.  Graduallj'-,  bit  bj'  bit,  the  veneer 
of  civih'zation  had  been  chipped  away.  Gloria 
no  longer  saw  the  gulf  that  separated  them. 
She  knew  only  that  by  cozening  words  this 
other  woman  was  trying  to  make  her  think 
she  had  been  robbed  of  her  own.  Her  weak- 
ness left  her.  Now  when  she  summoned  all 
her  strength,  she  joyed  to  find  it  did  not  fail. 
As  Little  Ella  proclaimed  that  the  man  they 
were  hiding  had  come  to  see  her,  Gloria  sprang 
to  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  cried  with  all  the  in- 
dignation of  an  overwrought  soul: 

"You  lie  r 

"That 's  what  you  saj%  but  down  in  your 
heart  you  know  it 's  the  truth.  It  ain't  the 
first  time  he  's  been  here.  Oh,  he  's  told  me 
about  you,  the  boss's  daughter ;  but  it 's  me  he 
loves." 

The  men  were  forgotten  in  this  duel  so  ele- 
mental that  it  could  have  had  the  stone  age 
for  its  setting.  On  one  side,  hate  bitter  as  the 
grave;  on  the  other,  love  and  faith  stronger 
than  death  itself. 

"Every  word  you  utter  is   a  lie,"   Gloria 

[283] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

blazed.  "If  you  loved  him  you  would  n't  have 
called  these  cutthroats." 

"Why  don*  you  tell  'em  yer  the  boss's  daugh- 
ter now?"  taunted  the  other. 

"Look  here,  Ella,"  Ryan  broke  in,  "we  're 
tired  o'  standin'  here  like  fools.  Quit  yer 
gassin'  an'  make  good." 

"You  '11  git  yours  all  right.  She 's  not 
David  Kerr's  daughter.  Don'  you  let  her 
bluff  you.  I  know  where  she  hid  'im.  I  '11 
tell  you  where  he  is." 

Gloria  turned  upon  the  men. 

"I  've  told  you  the  truth,  and  I  've  warned 
you.  Don't  you  come  a  step  closer."  Then 
she  threatened  the  woman,  "If  you  dare  to 
speak  a — " 

Little  Ella  was  not  to  be  intimidated. 

"When  she  dragged  him  in,"  she  began,  "she 
locked  the  door,  an'  then  she — " 

Gloria  was  standing  at  no  great  distance 
from  the  bed  when  Little  Ella  began  her  be- 
trayal of  Wright's  hiding  place.  As  she  real- 
ized that  in  an  instant  the  secret  would  be  out, 
her  eyes  dilated  with  her  look  of  hate.     Then 

[284] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

they  narrowed  to  cruel  slits,  while  a  tremor 
ran  through  her  hody.  One  who  knew  the  girl 
would  scarcely  have  recognized  her.  Like 
some  lithe  creature  of  the  jungle  waiting  for 
the  kill,  she  seemed  to  crouch  for  the  spring. 
Just  as  the  woman  was  about  to  utter  the 
words  which  would  reveal  where  the  news- 
paper man  was  concealed,  Gloria  was  upon  her. 
She  seemed  with  one  bound  to  have  leapt  the 
space  that  separated  them. 

"You  Jezebel!"  she  raged,  and  struck  her 
fair  upon  the  mouth. 

Ryan  and  Kelly  did  not  stir.  The  unex- 
pected had  happened,  and  they  were  held  spell- 
bound. 

Gloria's  breath  rushed  through  her  teeth 
with  a  horrid,  hissing  sound,  her  face  was 
flushed,  her  hair  touseled,  and  her  waist  in 
disarray.  Yet  she  heeded  nothing  but  the 
wild  impulse  to  defend  her  own. 

Little  Ella,  her  scant  strength  all  spent, 
gasped  out  that  she  would  tell  nothing. 
Gloria  was  beside  herself  and  the  promise 
meant  nothing  to  her.     With  a  man's  strength 

[285] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

she  lifted  the  woman  up,  held  her  there  an  in- 
stant, and  then  hurled  her  back  upon  the  bed. 
Her  head  fell  over  the  side,  and  she  lay  as  one 
dead. 

Her  rage  was  still  hot  upon  her  as  she  turned 
to  confront  the  two  men. 

"As  for  you,  get  out." 

Ryan  made  one  last  half-hearted  stand. 

"Say,  the  boss  hates  that  man.  Are  you 
really  Dave  Kerr's  daughter?" 

"And  you  need  to  ask  such  a  question !"  she 
stormed.  "Ask  Mike  Noonan  if  you  ^\nll,  but 
beware  of  David  Kerr !  If  ever  you  have  cause 
to  fear  him,  you  have  it  now.  ]\Iy  anger  is  liis 
anger,  and  don't  you  dare  defy  the  daughter 
of  David  Kerr!" 

She  took  a  step  forward  menacingly,  as  if 
she  had  strength  to  inflict  the  same  chastise- 
ment they  had  seen  administered  to  the  woman. 
The}'-  did  not  stay  to  argue  with  her.  Leaving 
Little  Ella  to  her  fate,  the}'^  made  a  hasty  re- 
treat. 

No  sooner  were  they  out  of  the  room  than 
Gloria  put  into  execution  what  she  had  de- 

[286] 


She  felt  for  the  beat  of  his  heart 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

signed  when  they  departed  the  first  time. 
Rushing  to  the  door  she  closed  it  hastily  and 
pushed  the  washstand  in  front  of  it,  wedging 
it  under  the  knob.  This  done,  she  ran  back 
and  dragged  Wright  from  his  hiding  place. 
There  was  no  thought  of  the  woman  whose 
head  hung  over  the  side  of  the  bed  in  such 
ghastly  fashion. 

Gloria  lifted  his  head  and  dashed  water  upon 
his  face.  She  watched  him  closely,  and  as  she 
saw  that  it  had  no  effect  upon  him,  a  sudden 
fear  seized  her  and  her  cheeks  were  blanched. 
With  trembling  fingers  she  tore  at  his  shirt  and 
felt  for  the  beat  of  his  heart.  She  could  feel 
its  faint  pulsation.     He  lived. 

With  a  wild  cry  she  flung  herself  forward 
in  a  deep  swoon  upon  the  body  of  the  uncon- 
scious man. 


[2871 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  one  person  who  could  have  told  how 
Joe  Wright  had  come  to  visit  Mike 
Noonan's  lodging  house  was  David 
Kerr.  He  had  sprung  the  trap  himself,  never 
dreaming  that  his  own  daughter  would  be 
caught  in  it.  When  the  fight  on  the  Interur- 
ban  Railway  had  first  started,  at  command  of 
the  boss.  Jack  Durken,  a  ward  heeler,  appar- 
ently had  gone  over  to  the  enemy. 

The  man  had  found  employment  in  the  cir- 
culation department  of  the  News,  and  soon 
afterward  the  information  reached  Wright 
that  one  of  his  own  employes  was  a  former 
henchman  of  the  notorious  first  ward  leader, 
Mike  Noonan.  Durken  was  loud  in  his  de- 
nunciations of  David  Kerr  and  his  followers, 
and  appeared  willing  to  betray  whatever  he 
knew  of  the  methods  of  the  gang. 

The  editor  found  him  a  fountain  of  infor- 

[288] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

mation  regarding  the  shady  politics  of  Bel- 
mont. In  reality  Durken  told  only  what 
David  Kerr  ordered  him  to  tell.  Wishing  to 
establish  Wright's  confidence  in  the  man,  Kerr 
had  him  disclose  many  things  of  slight  im- 
portance that  were  absolutely  authentic. 

One  of  the  charges  continuously  brought 
against  the  machine  was  that  it  was  colo- 
nizing floaters  in  lodging  houses  in  the  low, 
thickly-populated  river  wards.  Durken  even 
admitted  it  when  Wright  asked  about  it,  and 
several  days  later  suggested  a  tour  of  inspec- 
tion. The  blood  of  the  star  reporter  warmed 
in  the  editor's  veins.  The  idea  was  tantaliz- 
ing. It  was  one  of  those  stories  a  good  man 
would  sacrifice  half  a  year's  salary  to  handle. 

Without  saying  any  thing  to  any  one,  the 
owner  of  the  News  thought  of  the  expedition 
for  several  days.  The  more  he  thought  of  it, 
the  more  it  appealed  to  him.  The  more  it  ap- 
pealed to  him  the  less  was  the  likelihood  of 
his  considering  the  axiom  that  in  a  battle  it  is 
a  general's  duty  not  to  get  hurt.  In  fact,  the 
thought  of  physical  injury  did  not  occur  to 

1&  [289] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

him.  He  was  a  stranger  to  Belmont,  no  one 
knew  him,  and  in  the  daytime  there  was  no 
danger. 

When  Wright  finally  decided  to  investigate 
personally  it  was  only  a  few  days  before  the 
election.  He  determined  that  he  would  wan- 
der down  into  the  first  ward  two  days  before 
the  votes  were  cast  to  gather  material  for  his 
story.  The  next  afternoon,  just  on  the  eve  of 
the  election,  his  final  attack  on  the  machine 
would  be  an  expose  of  ring  methods  of  han- 
dling vagabond  voters  imported  for  the  occa- 
sion. 

This  programme  was  being  carried  out  as 
originally  planned,  notwithstanding  the  break 
with  Gloria  the  previous  day,  when  Wright 
was  induced  to  go  through  Xoonan's  "hotel." 
Here,  deserted  by  Durken,  who  had  been  his 
guide,  he  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  Turkey 
Ryan  and  Buck  Kelly. 

Although  dazed  by  the  unexpectedness  of 

the  attack,  he  had  nevertheless  managed  to 

give  a  good  account  of  himself.     The  cramped 

attic  quarters  in  which  they  had  fought  had 

[290] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

been  in  his  favor.  The  two  bruisers  had  been 
surprised  by  what  a  scientific  boxer  could  do 
in  a  rough-and-tumble  fight.  To  the  momen- 
tary indecision  resulting  from  his  good  defense 
Wright  owed  his  escape  from  the  room  in  which 
he  had  been  trapped. 

A  stinging  blow  having  taken  all  the  fight 
out  of  Kelly,  he  lurched  and  fell  forward 
against  the  door  just  as  the  newspaper  man 
had  managed  to  elude  his  assailants  for  the  in- 
stant and  slfp  out  of  the  room.  Forced  to 
minister  to  his  companion,  Turkey  Ryan  had 
lost  many  valuable  seconds  before  he  could 
take  up  the  pursuit.  It  was  during  this  respite 
that  Wright,  groping  blindly  for  the  stair, 
had  tripped  and  fallen,  to  be  found  unconscious 
by  Gloria  in  front  of  Little  Ella's  door. 

No  one  ever  knew  exactly  what  had  taken 
place  in  Noonan's  lodging  house  that  afternoon 
in  early  spring.  Returning  from  the  mission 
with  Dr.  Norton,  Mrs.  Hayes  was  surprised  to 
find  the  door  of  the  Windermere  woman's  room 
fastened  from  within.  When  no  response 
greeted  her  knock,  surprise  gave  way  to  alarm, 

[291] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

and  she  called  upon  Dr.  Norton  to  aid  her  in 
opening  the  door.  Gloria  had  not  fastened  it 
as  securely  as  she  had  thought,  and  it  required 
no  great  strength  on  the  part  of  the  physician 
to  force  it  open. 

Gloria  was  removed  to  Mrs.  Hayes's  home 
in  a  carriage  as  soon  as  she  was  revived.  Lit- 
tle Ella,  in  a  semi-conscious,  delirious  state,  was 
hurried  to  the  city  hospital  in  a  police  ambu- 
lance. An  examination  having  shown  that 
Wright  had  sustained  no  serious  injury,  as  soon 
as  he  had  regained  consciousness  he  was  taken 
to  his  own  apartment. 

David  Kerr  was  not  allowed  to  see  his  daugh- 
ter. Although  the  exact  nature  of  the  shock  to 
which  she  had  been  subjected  was  not  known, 
since  both  Kelly  and  Ryan  had  disappeared, 
yet  the  physicians  did  not  think  it  best  in  her 
nervous  condition  for  her  to  see  even  her  father. 
The  following  day  she  remained  in  bed,  speak- 
ing never  a  word,  busy  with  her  own  thoughts. 
The  next  day,  that  of  the  election,  she  dressed, 
but  did  not  leave  her  room. 

When  it  was  seen  that  Gloria  was  under  the 
[292] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

cloud  of  a  settled  melancholy,  there  was  debate 
how  best  to  minister  to  her.  Her  very  silence 
made  the  problem  more  perplexing.  She  ut- 
tered never  a  word  by  which  they  might  pluck 
out  the  heart  of  the  mystery.  Strange  as  it 
may  seem,  she  did  not  even  ask  about  Joe 
Wright.  She  did,  however,  read  the  morning 
and  the  afternoon  papers  carefully.  In  neither 
was  there  any  reference  to  an  attack  on  the  edi- 
tor. As  her  mind  beat  upon  the  bars  of  its 
new  iron  cage,  it  sufficed  her  to  know  that  all 
must  be  well  with  him. 

Joe  Wright's  injuries  were  not  of  a  serious 
nature,  yet  it  was  thought  best  that  he  remain 
at  home  for  several  days.  By  means  of  the 
telephone  and  through  the  men  who  came  to 
the  house  he  edited  the  News  the  day  previous 
to  election.  Over  the  same  telephone  line 
came  the  cheering  news  the  next  night  that  the 
democrats  had  been  defeated.  David  Kerr's 
rule  had  been  broken. 

Nothing  of  a  personal  nature  had  been  al- 
lowed to  help  contribute  to  this  success.  No 
mention  had  been  made  in  the  News  of  the 

[293] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

assault  on  its  editor  in  Mike  Noonan's  lodging 
house,  because  •to  Wright  it  had  appeared  as 
a  personal  matter.  The  day  previous  Gloria 
had  denounced  him  and  cried  aloud  for  venge- 
ance. He  recognized  that  had  Gloria  not  been 
mixed  up  in  the  affair  the  result  might  have 
been  the  same,  but  the  personal  element  was 
what  made  him  hold  his  peace. 

The  news  that  the  day  had  been  carried  for 
good  government  was  only  a  temporary  intox- 
icant. There  were  a  few  moments  of  exhilara- 
tion when  his  real  feelings  were  submerged  in 
the  general  rejoicing  that  David  Kerr  had 
been  given  a  more  severe  set-back  than  he  had 
ever  before  received.  Then  came  the  ebb  of 
the  tide,  leaving  him  on  the  desolate  shore  of 
disheartening  uncertainty.  The  past  was  a 
nightmare  and  the  future  a  blank. 

The  tumult  and  the  cheers  had  died  away, 
the  brass  bands  at  last  were  stilled,  his  sitting- 
room  with  two  windows  on  the  street  and  its 
own  private  entrance  had  been  cleared  of  to- 
bacco smoke,  and  the  reception  he  had  held 
when  it  was  learned  the  election  had  gone  his 

[294] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

way  was  at  an  end,  when  Joe  Wright  sat  him- 
self down  alone  in  the  quiet  of  the  first  hours 
of  the  morning  to  take  stock  of  his  future. 

Gloria?     What  of  her? 

It  was  always  Gloria,  Gloria,  Gloria,  run- 
ning through  his  mind,  knocking  at  the  door  of 
his  heart. 

Always  of  the  Gloria  who  had  spurned  Iiim, 
he  thought,  for  he  knew  nothing  of  the  part  she 
had  played  in  the  lodging  house.  It  was  not  a 
situation  to  contemplate  with  equanimity — 
this  living  in  the  same  town  with  the  woman  he 
loved  madly.  Were  Belmont  of  some  size,  a 
city  like  St.  Louis  or  Pittsburg,  there  would 
be  the  probability  that  their  paths  would  sel- 
dom cross.  Yet  in  Belmont  every  one  knew 
every  one  else  and  never  a  week  passed  but 
what  they  all  met  at  least  in  passing. 

It  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  avoid 
Gloria  altogether.  He  was  frank  enough  to 
acknowledge  to  himself  that  he  would  undoubt- 
edly seek  those  places  where  there  would  be 
some  certainty  of  his  meeting  her.  To  be  in 
the  same  town  with  her  meant  that  he  could  not 
[295] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

give  her  up.  Yet  he  knew  that  any  overtures 
he  might  make  would  he  worse  than  useless. 
He  felt  that  her  prejudice  was  such  that  there 
could  never  be  established  that  bond  without 
which  matrimony  is  unholy.  The  ruffed  pool 
may  again  be  calm,  the  misted  mirror  may 
again  be  clear,  yet  he  believed  in  her  ignorance 
she  would  feel  that  when  two  hearts  but  once 
have  broken  troth  there  is  no  alchemy  that  love 
distills  can  make  the  past  to  live  again  and  the 
dead  present  as  though  it  had  not  been. 

The  harder  he  tried  to  fight  against  his  con- 
viction of  what  he  should  do,  the  more  Wright 
was  convinced  that  there  was  but  one  course  for 
him  to  pursue:  it  would  be  best  for  him  to  leave 
Belmont.  This  would  be  not  for  a  week  or  a 
month,  but  for  all  time.  It  would  be  neces- 
sary for  him  to  dispose  of  the  paper,  but  this 
he  could  do  through  a  broker.  He  was  quite 
willing  to  let  it  go  at  a  sacrifice,  to  lose  what  he 
had  himself  put  into  it,  so  anxious  was  he  to 
escape  from  Belmont  in  search  of  that  magical 
flower,  heart's-ease. 

Having  made  up  his  mind,  Wright  went  to 

1:^96] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  The  few  remaining 
hours  of  darkness  he  rolled  and  tossed.  It  was 
not  the  bruises  he  had  received  in  the  fight  at 
Noonan's  that  kept  him  awake,  annoying  as 
they  were.  It  was  always  the  one  thought — 
Gloria,  Gloria,  Gloria. 

Morning  brought  diversions  which  slightly 
relieved  the  tension.  There  were  two  edito- 
rials to  be  written  upon  the  political  situation. 
This  was  followed  by  conferences  with  men  on 
the  paper,  and  then  came  the  letter  to  the  news- 
paper broker  announcing  that  the  News  was 
for  sale.  He  did  not  dictate  this  to  his  secre- 
tary, but  wrote  it  out  laboriously  in  long-hand. 

The  morning  was  more  than  half  over  when 
he  began  to  pack.  It  was  Wright's  intention 
to  leave  Belmont  that  night,  ostensibly  on  a 
vacation  for  the  purpose  of  recuperation  after 
the  hard  campaign.  The  owner  of  the  News 
felt,  however,  that  he  would  never  return. 

The  many  steps  necessitated  in  packing 
taught  him  how  weak  he  was,  and  after  lunch 
he  called  in  Patty,  the  little  daughter  of  his 
landlady,  to  help  him.     They  had  always  been 

[297] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

the  best  of  friends,  and  her  sorrow  when  she 
learned  he  was  going  away  on  a  long  vacation 
was  genuine.  The  child  was  of  much  assist- 
ance, bringing  all  the  smaller  things  from  the 
living  room  into  the  bedroom  where  the  real 
work  of  packing  was  being  done. 

When  the  packing  was  about  completed  the 
little  girl  remembered  that  she  had  brought  a 
doll  with  her.  In  searching  for  it  in  a  pile  of 
clothing  beside  Wright's  trunk  she  felt  some- 
thing hard.  To  satisfy  her  curiosity  she  drew 
it  forth,  to  discover,  instead  of  her  doll,  that  it 
was  a  framed  j)icture  of  a  young  woman.  It 
was  a  picture  of  Gloria  which  had  appeared  in 
a  weekly  society  paper. 

Patty  had  helped  wrap  the  framed  pictures 
in  old  newspapers,  and  as  she  brought  Gloria's 
picture,  she  exclaimed  triumphantly,  "Here  's 
another  picture,  Mr.  Joey." 

Wright  had  put  it  aside  surreptitiously  when 
packing  the  things  he  had  planned  to  take  with 
him  for  immediate  use.  For  the  fraction  of  a 
minute  there  had  been  a  debate  in  his  mind  as 
to  whether  or  not  he  would  be  weak  enough  to 

[298] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

carry  her  picture  with  him.  He  had  finally 
placed  it  under  a  pile  of  clothing  beside  his 
steamer  trunk. 

"It 's  extremely  good  of  you  to  find  that  pic- 
ture," the  man  remarked  with  the  gravity  he 
sometimes  assumed  in  treating  Patty  as  one  of 
equal  years  and  understanding;  "I  doubt  if  I 
should  have  found  it." 

"I  was  hunting  for  my  dolly,  and  looked  un- 
der a  pile  of  things  and  found  the  pretty  pic- 
ture lady."  She  gazed  at  the  picture  of  Gloria 
admiringly. 

"Really,  Patty,  you  astonish  me!  Your  per- 
spicacit}^  is  exceeded  only  by  your  persever- 
ance. I  don't  think  I  should  ever  have  found 
that  picture.  Just  leave  it  on  the  table  there, 
and  don't — if  you  love  me — lose  your  dolly  any 
more,  please;  at  least  not  until  all  my  things 
are  securely  packed." 

Patty  was  just  on  the  point  of  asking  the 
name  of  the  young  woman  who  had  so  taken  her 
fancy,  when  the  doorbell  rang.  With  the  an- 
nouncement that  no  one  was  at  home  and  she 
had  to  answer  the  bell,  she  scamjiered  off. 
[299] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

Wright  picked  up  the  picture  and  gazed  at 
it  intently.  He  was  sacrificing  all  for  her. 
Was  the  sacrifice  worth  while?  The  question 
would  have  been  an  idle  one.  He  loved  her, 
had  never  loved  any  one  else  and  never  would 
love  any  one  else.  No  sacrifice  was  too  great 
which  would  mean  any  increased  happiness  for 
her.  The  sound  of  some  one  being  brought  to 
his  rooms  by  Patty  caused  him  to  put  the  pic- 
ture hastily  face  downward  on  the  table.  The 
door  opened  to  admit  Dr.  Hayes. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Wright,"  he  ex- 
claimed cordially  as  he  came  forward  with  hand 
outstretched.  "I  hope  you  '11  let  a  democrat 
drop  in  to  congratulate  you  on  winning  the 
election." 

The  editor's  face  lit  up  with  pleasure  as  they 
clasped  hands. 

"Thank  you,  old  man.  It 's  awfully  good 
of  you  to  stop  by  before  I  started  on  a  little  va- 
cation. The  News  won  its  fight ;  but  of  course 
we  can't  expect  this  to  be  the  end  of  the  contest, 
can  we?" 

The  coroner  shook  his  head  dolefully. 

[300] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"Don't  ask  me.  I  've  ceased  to  be  a  political 
prophet.  *Do  you  think  it  '11  be  a  boy,  doc?* 
they  ask.  'I  don't  know,'  says  I,  shaking  my 
head  solemn-like.  I  'm  going  to  get  that  wise 
about  politics.  I  don't  prophesy  anything  now 
until  after  it  happens.  But  I  never  thought 
I  'd  live  to  see  the  day  that  Belmont  would  go 
republican.     I  'm  out  of  politics." 

Wright  smiled.  "Isn't  that  what  they  all 
say — the  day  after?" 

"It 's  the  truth  this  time.  My  wife  has 
done  nothing  but  read  the  riot  act  to  me  for 
the  last  two  days." 

"I  imagine  Mrs.  Hayes  is  a  purist  in  poli- 
tics." 

"Well,  I  can't  blame  her,"  the  doctor  ad- 
mitted. "She  's  been  poking  around  down  in 
the  river  wards,  and  that  surely  was  a  raw 
frame-up  they  handed  you.  She  got  onto  it, 
and  she  's  dead  sore." 

Wright  had  discussed  the  affair  with  Dr. 
Norton  and  had  also  told  Arthur  ISIorrison 
what  httle  he  knew.  This  was  the  first  intima- 
tion coming  from  the  ring  that  they  even  knew 

[301] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

of  the  occurrence.  The  newspaper  man  was 
curious  to  know  the  ring  version  of  it.  Dr. 
Hayes's  remark  afforded  him  the  opportunity 
to  approach  the  matter  cautiously. 

"What  was  Mrs.  Hayes's  connection  with 
that — ah — httle  episode?"  he  asked.  "I  gath- 
ered from  Dr.  Norton  that  in  some  way  or 
other  she  knew  something  about  it." 

Dr.  Hayes  stared  at  him  in  amazement. 
Miss  Kerr  had  never  uttered  a  word,  yet  he 
readily  believed,  as  did  the  others,  that  both 
Wright  and  she  were  the  only  ones  who  could 
tell  the  story.  The  woman  in  whose  room  they 
had  been  found  was  still  in  a  delirious  condition 
at  the  city  hospital  and  nothing  could  be 
learned  from  her.  Although  Kerr  had  or- 
dered the  police  to  bring  in  Ryan  and  Kelly, 
the  search  had  been  unsuccessful. 

"What!"  gasped  Dr.  Hayes,  "don't  you 
know  how  you  got  out  of  that  mess  and  why 
the  thugs  did  n't  finish  you?" 

Wright  shook  his  head.  His  visitor's  man- 
ner puzzled  him.* 

"I  don't  know  a  thing.     I  tliink  some  one 

[302] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

helped  me  in  some  way  or  other,  but  Dr.  Nor- 
ton claimed  he  knew  nothing." 

"Well,  I  '11  be  damned!" 

"Don't;  there's  no  occasion  for  it  now — 
you  're  out  of  politics.  The  first  thing  I  knew 
was  when  I  heard  Dr.  Norton  say,  *He  's 
coming  to,  all  right.'  " 

Soon  Hayes  picked  up  his  hat  to  go.  He 
stood  for  an  instant,  as  if  inviting  Wright  to 
speak.  As  he  did  not  do  so,  the  visitor  asked, 
thinking  of  Gloria  the  while: 

"Is  there  anything  you  want  to  know,  now 
that  you  're  going  on  a  vacation,  or  would  you 
like  me  to  deliver  any — messages?" 

"No,  none."  Then  after  a  pause,  "It  is  bet- 
ter so." 

"Well,  I  'm  off,"  remarked  the  doctor.  He 
spoke  carelessly,  to  hide  his  regret,  for  at  heart 
he  keenly  sympathized  with  the  man  who  was 
making  so  strong  a  fight  for  a  principle  that 
love  itself  had  to  give  way  before  it.  Then  he 
added,  apparently  as  an  afterthought,  "By  the 
way,  I  beheve  that  offer  for  your  paper  still 
holds  good." 

[303] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

Wright  laughed,  the  little  world-weary  laugh 
he  had  sometimes  permitted  himself  since  he 
and  Gloria  had  parted  in  Judge  Gilbert's  of- 
fice. 

"My  vacation  has  started,"  he  answered, 
"and  I  'm  not  talking  business.  But  you  can 
tell  Judge  Gilbert  for  me  that  the  Belmont 
News  is  not  on  the  market  for  his  clients." 

"All  right,  I  '11  tell  him,"  Hayes  repHed  as 
they  shook  hands.  "Here  's  good  luck  to  you 
on  your  vacation." 

Wright  smiled  grimly,  the  thought  that  good 
luck  would  perch  upon  his  standard  was  a  sorry 
hope.  He  refused  to  blind  himself  to  the  truth 
with  any  fleeting  consolation  such  as  that. 


[304] 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  morning  after  the  election,  Gloria 
called  for  the  Banner  as  soon  as  she 
wakened.  The  headlines  told  her  at 
once  that  her  father  had  been  defeated.  She 
searched  carefully  through  the  paper  for  some 
reference  to  Joe  Wright,  but  no  mention  was 
made  of  him.  Naturally  enough,  the  Banner 
was  not  in  a  jubilant  mood.  It  predicted  dire 
things  in  store  for  Belmont,  but  Gloria,  re- 
membering what  she  had  learned  at  so  bitter  a 
cost,  felt  that  any  change  must  be  for  the  bet- 
ter. 

The  girl  had  now  recovered  from  the  first 
severity  of  the  shock,  and  was  anxious  to  know 
for  a  certainty  what  had  become  of  Wright. 
She  knew  that  he  lived  and  was  not  seriously  in- 
jured, else  there  would  have  been  some  men- 
tion of  him  in  the  paper.     The  day  previous 

20  [305] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

she  had  thought  much  of  him,  but  there  had 
been  much  else  for  her  to  think  of.  Now  with 
a  return  to  what  was  to  be  for  her  the  normal, 
she  wanted  to  know  how  he  fared.     - 

All  the  morning  Gloria  spent  in  revolving 
in  her  mind  just  what  she  ought  to  do.  She 
knew  that  her  father  meant  Wright  harm. 
Pride  and  maidenly  reserve  wrestled  with  what 
she  considered  her  duty.  Her  conscience  told 
her  that  before  she  left  Belmont  forever  she 
should  warn  this  man  who  once  had  loved  her. 
He  must  be  placed  on  his  guard  against  her 
own  father.  It  cut  her  hke  a  knife  to  think 
that  the  attack  on  the  editor  had  really  been 
made  at  her  command.  Now  she  could  do  no 
less  than  tell  him  how  affairs  stood. 

Dr.  Hayes  could  scarcely  conceal  his  surprise 
when  Gloria  followed  him  into  the  hall  after 
luncheon  and  asked  about  Mr.  Wright's  condi- 
tion. He  told  her  that  he  still  kept  to  his  room, 
but  was  reported  as  improving.  Before  he 
could  frame  a  question,  Gloria  thanked  him 
and  fled  up  the  stairs.  About  three  o'clock  she 
emerged  from  her  room,  dressed  for  the  street, 
[306] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

and  announced  to  Mrs.  Hayes  that  she  was  go- 
ing for  a  short  walk  alone. 

What  the  daughter  of  David  Kerr  told  her 
hostess  was  the  truth.  She  did  go  for  a  short 
walk,  a  walk  that  took  her  in  the  most  direct 
way  to  the  house  where  Joe  Wright  resided. 
The  door  was  opened  for  her  by  a  little  girl  who 
invited  her  to  enter. 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Wright,"  Gloria  ex- 
plained to  the  child. 

"I  '11  take  you  to  his  sitting-room.  He  told 
me  to  bring  anybody  in  that  came  to  see  him, 
and  to  tell  'em  he  'd  be  back  in  a  minute." 

All  was  silence  in  the  room  when  the  little 
girl  threw  wide  the  door  and  bade  her  enter. 

"Then  he  's  not  in  the  house,  you  say?" 

"No,  he  's  gone  to  get  a  baggageman,  but  he 
said  to  wait,"  Patty  insisted. 

"Whom  did  he  wish  to  wait?" 

"Oh,  anybody.  He  said  somebody  's  com- 
ing to  pack  his  books.  He  hurt  himself  and 
can't  bend  over  the  box." 

"Oh!"  cried  Gloria,  with  a  little  gasp  of 
pain.     She  remembered  all  too  well  the  hurt 

[307] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

of  which  he  complained.  Then  at  the  same 
time  came  a  new  thought,  why  was  he  packing 
his  books?  A  more  critical  look  showed  her 
many  evidences  that  he  was  giving  up  his 
apartment.     She  could  not  understand. 

"Is  Mr.  Wright  moving  ever5i:hing?"  she 
ventured. 

"Yes,  he  's  going  away." 

Gloria  gazed  at  the  child  in  surprise,  not 
quite  grasping  what  she  said.  A  smothered 
exclamation  caused  her  to  look  up  quickly. 
There,  staring  at  her  from  the  doorway  in  hon- 
est amazement,  stood  Joe  Wright.  She  felt 
her  cheeks  crimson. 

"Miss  Kerr!  You  here!"  he  gasped,  before 
he  could  master  his  surprise.  Then  in  an  in- 
stant he  went  on  in  an  even,  conventional  tone, 
"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  scarcely  expected  to  find 
you  here." 

"No,  I — I — I  scarcely  expected  to  find  my- 
self here,  but  here  I  am."  As  she  said  this  she 
extended  her  hands,  then  dropped  them,  a  ges- 
ture which  seemed  to  typify  the  simplicity  with 
which  the  visit  had  been  accomplished. 

[308] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

Wright  readily  recognized  that  there  was 
some  motive  in  the  call,  and  dismissed  Patty 
with  instructions  to  let  him  know  if  any  one 
asked  for  him. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  he  begged,  remem- 
bering his  duty  as  host. 

"Thank  you,  I  have  n't  a  moment  to  stay." 

Wright  looked  about  for  a  chair,  to  find  them 
filled  with  odds  and  ends  of  things  intended  to 
be  packed.  The  girl  insisted  that  she  preferred 
to  stand,  and  listened  to  his  apolog}'-  for  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  room  and  the  explanation  that 
he  was  moving. 

"I  learned  at  luncheon  you  were  going 
away,"  she  acknowledged.  "Since  you  would 
not  come  to  see  me,  I  had  to  come  to  see  you." 

Again  his  amazement  equaled  that  the  sight 
of  her  in  his  living  room  had  occasioned.  He 
permitted  it  to  betray  itself  by  exclaiming: 

"Since  I  would  n't  come  to  see  you !  Surely, 
Miss  Kerr,  you  didn't  expect  that?  There 
was  nothing  whatever  equivocal  about  my 
dismissal." 

This  was  something  she  had  not  planned,  a 

[309] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

reference  to  the  past.  She  wished  merely  to 
warn  him  and  then  take  leave  of  him  forever. 

"I  didn't  come  with  a  desire  to  refer  to 
that,"  she  answered.  "You  must  realize  that 
what  I  have  to  say  seems  to  me  of  the  utmost 
importance,  else  I — oh,  you  can't  know  the 
effort  it  has  cost  me  to  come  here." 

"I  'm  sorry  if  your  dislike  is  so  intense." 

She  shook  her  head,  with  a  smile  that  was 
only  a  sad  lighting  up  of  her  countenance,  like 
the  last  flare  of  an  expiring  flame. 

"Let  us  not  speak  of  like  or  dislike.  All 
that  is  past.  It  is  true  I  promised  myself 
never  to  see  you  again,  but  since  that  day  in 
Judge  Gilbert's  office  events  have  shed  such  a 
new  light  on  Belmont  and  on  me  that  I  feel 
some  explanations  are  due  you  before  you  go 
away." 

Quick  as  a  flash  he  saw  that  she  had  learned 
the  truth,  or  at  least  some  part  of  it.  With  his 
characteristic  generosity  he  wished  to  relieve 
her  of  the  necessity  of  making  explanations. 
They  would  lead  nowhere  and  only  cause  her 
pain. 

[310] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"I  appreciate  your  coming,  Miss  Kerr,  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  do,  but  if — if  any- 
thing you  think  you  have  to  tell  causes  you 
pain,  I  'd  rather  far  that  what  you  wish  to  say 
should  remain  unspoken." 

"That 's  generous  of  you,  but  I  should  find 
it  harder  to  maintain  silence — because  I  want 
to  be  just." 

"Miss  Kerr!  There  is  no  occasion  for  you 
to—" 

"Please,  please,  don't  interrupt  me.  It 's 
hard  enough  as  it  is."  A  chair  he  had  brought 
for  Gloria  she  had  refused,  and  now  he  sank 
into  it  himself,  his  head  resting  in  his  hands  as 
he  listened.  "I  have  hved  away  from  Bel- 
mont," she  went  on  in  an  even,  repressed  mono- 
tone that  cut  him  to  the  heart,  "since  I  was  a 
little  girl,  too  young  to  understand,  and  I  was 
brought  up  to  believe  that  my  father  was — 
well,  just  the  opposite  of  what  he  is.  It  was 
all  a  mistake,  of  course.  It  was  no  fault  of 
mine,  but  I  must  suffer  for  it  just  the  same.  I 
had  everything  money  could  buy ;  and  then  you 
came — and — and  I  had  love." 

[811] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

Pier  voice  trembled  for  the  instant.  Wright 
could  not  stand  it. 

"Gloria!"  he  cried,  seeking  to  stop  her,  but 
she  went  on  again  in  the  same  impersonal  man- 
ner, apparently  unheeding  his  gesture  for  her 
to  desist  as  much  as  she  did  the  cry  of  pain  that 
burst  from  his  lips. 

"But  no  one  was  really  kind  to  me.  I  lived 
in  a  fool's  Paradise.  I  did  not  know  the 
truth."  Then  vehemently,  losing  control  of 
herself.  "Oh,  why  did  you  ever  speak  to  me 
of  love!  You,  of  all  men,  to  make  my  humi- 
liation doubly  great." 

Her  manner  of  speaking  showed  how  much 
she  had  suffered  since  she  had  learned  the  truth, 
how  intense  her  unhappiness  would  continue  to 
be. 

"Don't  speak  so,  I  beg  of  you,"  Wright  com- 
manded. "Can  you  believe  that  I  have  not 
suffered?" 

She  choose  to  ignore  his  question. 

"Oh,  if  I  had  never  come  home!  If  I  had 
even  not  gone  to  Judge  Gilbert's  office  that 
day!    It  was  fate,  Joe,  it  was  fate.     I  can  see 

[312] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

it  all  now.  We  boast  that  we  dominate  cir- 
cumstances, the  gods  laugh  and  are  our  masters 
still.  Looking  back  the  way  we  've  come  from 
that  first  night  I  met  you  here  I  can  see  that 
every  step,  relentless  as  death,  was  leading  to 
that  day  when  I  learned  the  truth  about  my 
father." 

"And  you  know?" 

"Everything.  That's  why  I'm  here.  It 
was  really  such  a  little  time  ago  that  I  came 
back  to  Belmont,  yet  it  seems  ages.  Oh,  why 
did  n't  you  go  away !  You  must  have  seen  how 
it  had  to  end.  Since  I  came  home  and  first 
met  you,  I  've  lived  and  suffered  and  grown 
old.  And  I  had  dreamed  such  dreams!" 
Here  she  paused,  as  if  to  fight  back  the  painful 
memories  of  those  rainbow  dreams.  Then  she 
admitted  them.  "And  they  became  rosier  and 
rosier — because  of  you.  Even  the  disappoint- 
ments my  father's  lack  of  polish  caused  me 
were  nothing — because  of  you.  Then  you 
ceased  to  see  me,  and  I  did  n't  understand. 

"I  wanted  you  so  very  much — then — and 
you  did  not  come.     I  know  now  what  it  was; 

[813] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

the  election  was  coming  on,  you  had  begun  to 
fight  my  father.  You  knew  I  did  n't  realize 
his  position  in  Belmont.  I  'm  sincere.  I  want 
you  to  know  I  understand  how  hard  it  was  for 
you,  my  friend — ^because — I  believe  you  loved 
me — sincerely." 

"Sincerely,  Gloria."  His  reply  was  almost 
a  sob.  "You  know  I  begged  you  to  go 
away.  I  would  have  followed  you,  and  you 
would  never  have  known." 

His  last  sentence  was  full  of  bitterness,  an 
acknowledgment  of  the  Never-Never  Land 
whither  all  happiness  had  flown.  A  wan  smile 
was  her  acknowledgment  of  this. 

"That 's  true,  but  the  gods  laugh  and  are  our 
masters  still.  I  felt  that  I  owed  it  to  my 
father  to  remain  with  him  in  Belmont.  Then 
came  the  day  in  Judge  Gilbert's  office.  Did 
ever  a  girl  have  a  courtship  crowded  into  half 
an  hour?  So  short  a  time  there  was  between 
those  few  words  of  love  and  the  rude  awaken- 
ing which  followed  that  there  remains  to  me 
now  not  even  a  sweet  memory  of  that  avowal 
which  all  girls  cherish  so.     And  then — well, 

[314] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

that 's  why  I  've  come  to-day.  I  could  n't  let 
you  go  away  without  asking  you  to  forgive  me 
for  what  I  said  in  Judge  Gilbert's  office." 

"There  's  no  need  of  speaking  of  forgive- 
ness.    Please  do  not  say  any  more." 

She  was  not  to  be  deterred  from  her  set  pur- 
pose, and  therefore  affected  not  to  hear,  going 
straight  on  with  her  narrative. 

"You  see,  I  was  proud  of  my  father.  All 
my  life  he  'd  been  an  ideal,  not  a  reality,  and  I 
thought  him  incapable  of  anything  base.  It 
turned  out  I  was  wrong — what  I  said  about 

you." 

"No,  Gloria,  you  just  didn't  understand." 
"But,   just  the  same,   I  was  wrong,   and 

wanted  to  tell  you  so  before  I  went  away.     I 

knew  I  should  not  be  here  when  you  return,  and 

so  I  came  to-day." 

"You  're  not  going  to  leave  Belmont !" 
"Yes,  I  am.     Do  you  think  I  could  stay!" 

Her  tone  made  Wright's  heart  sink.     "No,  I 

lack    the    courage,    Joe,   the   moral   courage. 

There  's  that  much  of  the  butterfly  left  in  me. 

I  'm  not  strong  and  brave  like  you  are." 

[315] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

Gloria  could  not  know  how  his  strength  and 
bravery  were  slipping  from  him  little  by  little 
as  they  talked.  Her  very  presence  was  weav- 
ing its  subtle  spell  about  him,  snaring  him  with 
her  wan  beauty,  maddening  him  with  the 
thought  that  he  was  losing  her.  So  she  was 
going  away.  He  wondered  why,  speculating 
on  how  she  had  come  to  learn  the  truth.  This 
led  him  to  ask: 

"But  your  father?" 

Had  Wright  known  what  a  piteous  out- 
burst this  would  evoke,  he  never  would  have 
spoken.  Every  anguished  word  she  uttered 
seemed  to  burn  into  his  soul.  He  walked  up 
and  down  nervously  as  he  listened. 

"My  father!  What  am  I  to  him?  I 
have  n't  seen  him  from  that  day.  Since  then 
I  Ve  been  with  Mrs.  Hayes.  When  I  learned 
at  limcheon  that  you  were  going  away,  I  had 
to  come  because  I  can't  forgive  myself  for  what 
I  said  in  Judge  Gilbert's  office  that  came  near 
ending  so — disastrously — for  you." 

"Please  don't  think  of  it,"  he  begged.  "I 
[316] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

don't  connect  you  in  any  manner  with  the  at- 
tack on  me." 

"But  I  do,"  she  insisted,  "because  I  know 
the  truth."  Here  was  the  whole  reason  for 
her  coming,  she  told  herself.  "Since  you  're  in 
this  fight  to  stay — even  though  you  're  fighting 
my  own  father — I  want  you  to  have  all  the 
protection  that  knowledge  of  the  truth  will 
afford.     I  've  come  to  warn  you." 

Wright  saw  that  he  had  not  made  her  un- 
derstand that  he  was  giving  up  the  fight. 

"But  I  'm  going  away." 

"Yes,  you've  told  me;  but  you're  coming 
back  again,  because  you  know  your  place  is 
here.     There  's  work  to  do." 

He  recognized  instantly  that  it  was  her  wish 
for  him  to  remain.  Her  belief  in  him,  such  as 
it  was,  centered  about  his  efforts  to  make  Bel- 
mont a  better  place.  Not  wishing  to  explain 
what  pain  it  would  constantly  give  him  were 
he  to  do  so,  he  avoided  the  matter  by  referring 
to  her  own  future. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 
[817] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"I?  I  'm  going  abroad  in  a  few  days." 
"What  does  your  father  say  to  that?" 
Gloria's  lip  curled  with  scorn  at  the  ques- 
tion. Her  answer  came  with  the  coldness  of  a 
woman  of  the  world,  whose  warm  sympathies 
had  been  cruelly  crushed  and  turned  into  sour 
distrust.  It  was  the  answer  of  a  disillusionized 
woman  who  must  now  fend  for  herself. 

"He  can't  say  anything.  What  is  he  to  me? 
I  have  n't  even  sent  him  word  yet.  He  gave 
me  everything  in  the  world,  but  then  at  the 
supremest  moment  of  my  life  he  robbed  me  of 
it  all.  Would  a  father  do  that?"  she  asked 
fiercely.  "What  allegiance  do  I  owe  to  him. 
The  claim  of  blood!  Bah!  He's  always 
wished  I  'd  been  a  boy.  He  did  n't  lie  to  me 
because  he  loved  me.  He  did  n't  even  know 
me.  Do  you  think  it  wrenches  my  heart  to 
leave  him  now?  No;  a  thousand  times,  no. 
We  Ve  lived  too  many  years  apart.  What 
have  we  in  sympathy?  We  'd  be  strangers 
though  we  lived  under  the  same  roof  for  years." 
"But  when  you  go  abroad  what  are  you  go- 
ing to  do?"     He  could  see  no  future  for  her. 

[318] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"Just  drift.  There  is  so  much  that  I  want 
to  forget." 

"Much,  Gloria?"  he  asked  gently. 

"Yes,  much."  She  would  not  let  him  trap 
her  into  a  damaging  admission. 

"Everything?" 

"Everything  painful." 

Her  attitude,  he  felt  it  was  antagonistic,  im- 
patient even  of  his  kindly  questioning,  stirred 
him  to  a  vigorous  reply.  After  all,  she  was 
but  a  child,  and  like  a  child  wanted  to  shirk  the 
lesson  life  was  teaching  her. 

"Surely  I  've  not  been  mistaken  in  you,"  he 
began.  "It 's  by  suffering  that  we  learn  to 
live.  You  Ve  only  come  to  see  life  as  it  is, 
that  *s  all.  Would  you  throw  away  the  pre- 
cious knowledge  that  is  power  for  an  Arcadian 
ignorance  akin  to  weakness?  You've  just 
said  that  you  've  come  to  warn  me  of  some- 
thing. Were  you  true  to  your  theory  of  life, 
you  would  leave  me  in  ignorance,  because  the 
truth  would  give  me  pain.  But  you  don't  be- 
lieve that." 

From  the  depth  of  his  world-scarred  heart 

[819] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

he  pitied  her.  She  was  so  young,  and  so  re- 
belhous.  He  yearned  with  a  great  longing  to 
protect  her,  to  shield  her  from  life,  but  he  knew 
that  it  could  not  be.  In  this  world  the  lesson 
comes  to  each  one,  and  by  each  one  must  it  be 
learned  in  all  its  bitterness.  To  each  it  seems 
that  for  the  faith  that  is  no  more  there  is  no 
compensation.     And  at  the  time  there  is  none. 

"It 's  easy  enough  to  talk  and  give  advice," 
Gloria  flung  back  at  him.  "What  has  suffer- 
ing taught  you?" 

Here  was  a  question  he  could  answer,  and 
answer  decisively. 

*'It  has  taught  me  to  be  true  to  my  better 
self."  He  spoke  sternly.  Then  he  regretted 
that  he  had  seemed  harsh  with  her,  for  it  did  not 
soften  her,  and  she  made  no  comment. 

"Please  sit  down,"  he  said.  She  accepted 
the  proffered  chair  stiffly  and  waited.  He  had 
listened  to  her  patiently,  and  she  felt  it  only 
fair  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say  before  she  left 
him  forever. 

Wright  came  as  close  to  her  as  he  dared.  As 
he  spoke,  she  abandoned  the  rigid  attitude  she 

[820] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

had  felt  constrained  to  assume  and  sank  back 
in  the  big  chair.  The  man  stood  behind  her, 
ahnost  leaning  on  her  chair.  His  voice  was 
low  and  pleading.  She  closed  her  eyes  with  the 
pain  of  it  all,  as  she  began  to  comprehend  the 
full  meaning  of  what  he  was  saying. 

"Gloria,  I  did  n't  mean  to  be  harsh  just  now. 
God  knows  I  would  spare  you  all  you  have  been 
through  could  I  have  done  so.  Blot  out  this 
terrible  week.  Can't  we  go  back  to  that  head- 
long courtship  crowded  into  half  an  hour  ?  Let 
everything  be  as  it  was.  Then  I  begged  you 
to  go  away.  Now,  since  you  are  going,  let  us 
go  together.     Listen,  don't  you  remember? 

The  sun  is  the  flame  of  the  desert, 
And  you  are  the  flame  of  my  heart. 

Dreary  indeed  is  the  desert  imsunned. 
And  dreary  without  you,  my  heart. 

"You  know  it 's  the  truth,  Gloria.  Let  us 
go  together." 

He  bent  over  her,  trembling  with  emotion. 
The  girl  leaned  away  from  him  and  put  out 
her  hand  to  keep  him  from  coming  still  nearer. 

21  [321] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Don't  make  it  so  hard  for  me,  Joe  dear," 
she  begged.  "When  you  kissed  me  I  thought 
I  knew  my  heart,  but  now  nothing  in  the  whole 
world  will  ever  be  the  same  again.  You 
must  n't  blame  me ;  I  still  like  you,  more  than 
ever,  but  in  a  different  way.  Can't  you  un- 
derstand? You  have  told  me  I  'm  more  than 
a  shallow,  frivolous  girl.  I  honor  you  for  the 
offer,  Joe,  but  I  would  n't  be  true  to  that  bet- 
ter self  you  talk  about  if  I  accepted." 

"I  make  no  offer,  Gloria,"  he  pleaded. 
"I  'm  begging  you  to  love  me,  to  become  my 
wife." 

She  trembled  visibly  at  his  words.  Yet  her 
resolution  was  such  that  she  was  not  shaken 
from  her  purpose.  She  did  not  dare  look  at 
him,  however,  as  she  answered: 

"I  'm  afraid  the  love  one  must  beg 
for  would  n't  be  worth  having,  Joe.  You 
wouldn't  be  happy  with  me.  No  matter 
where  we  went  you  could  n't  forget  what  hap- 
pened here.  Then  consider  me — if  you  'd 
ever  be  absent-minded  for  a  minute,  gazing 

[322] 


"  I  am  begging  you  to  become  my  wife  " 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

into  space,  I  'd  know  you  were  thinking  of 
Belmont  and  the  opportunities  you  'd  thrown 
away  because  of  me.  I  couldn't  stand  it. 
I  'd  always  feel  that  you  were  recalling  the 
past  and  regretting  the  present.  It  would 
kill  me.     No,  Joe,  I  could  n't." 

Wright's  proposal  had  been  totally  unex- 
pected by  Gloria.  Up  to  the  time  he  had  be- 
gun to  plead  with  her  to  go  away  with  him, 
she  had  maintained  fair  control  of  herself. 
His  generous  offer,  as  she  termed  it,  had 
pierced  her  armor  of  reserve  and  laid  bare  her 
warm,  quivering  heart.  It  was  more  than  she 
could  stand.  Her  nervous  forces  had  been  ex- 
hausted, and  she  began  to  weep. 

"Pride,  Gloria,  pride,"  the  man  whispered. 
"It's  pride  that's  keeping  you  from  being 
true  to  yourself  and  true  to  me." 

"Don't  speak  to  me,  Joe,"  she  sobbed;  "I 
can't  stand  it." 

In  his  heart  he  yea'rned  with  all  the  ardor  of 
youth  and  love  to  gather  her  in  his  arms  and 
comfort  her.     Yet  he  knew  her  well  enough  to 

[323] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

know  that  it  could  not  be.  Her  humiliation 
had  rendered  impregnable  the  barrier  she  had 
erected  between  them.  There  was  naught  he 
could  do  but  suffer  in  silence  while  she  wept. 


[32<t] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

GLORIA  hated  herself  for  the  par- 
oxysm of  emotion  to  which  she  had 
given  way  in  the  presence  of  the  man 
whose  love  she  had  rejected.  There  was  no 
interpretation  to  be  put  upon  it  save  that  her 
nerves  were  overwrought,  yet  she  did  not  know 
how  he  would  construe  her  tears.  She  did 
not  wish  him  to  think  her  weak.  Suddenly 
the  girl  remembered  that  tears  were  a  woman's 
weapon.  The  thought  so  enraged  her  that  in 
her  anger  at  being  so  much  a  mere  woman  she 
forgot  to  weep.  She  had  in  her  the  spirit  of 
her  father.  Drying  her  eyes  hastily,  she 
turned  to  say  good-by. 

Wright  saw  her  turn  and  hold  out  her  hand. 
Could  she  have  changed  her  mind?  His  heart 
prompted  this  thought,  but  one  glance  at  her 
face  told  him  she  was  still  determined  to  go 
her  own  way  alone. 

[325] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Good-by,"  she  said. 

"Is  it  to  be  good-by,  Gloria?" 

"That,  and  nothing  more." 

The  man  looked  at  her  in  a  dazed  manner. 
Now  that  the  time  of  parting  had  come  she  had 
far  more  self-possession  than  he.  He  groped 
about  in  his  mind  for  something  to  say,  but 
words  were  inadequate.  There  is  no  telling 
how  his  feehngs  might  have  betrayed  him  had 
there  not  come  a  knock  at  the  door  to  interrupt 
their  parting. 

At  the  sound  Gloria  exclaimed  with  a  start, 
"Who  's  that?" 

Wright  walked  to  the  door,  saw  who  asked 
for  entrance,  and  opened  it  wide  for  Patty  to 
enter. 

"Mr.  Joey,  there  's  a  man  says  he  must  see 
you  at  once." 

"Did  you  tell  him  I  was  busy,  and  to  wait  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  just  like  you  told  me,  but  he  said 
to  tell  you  he  was  David  Kerr !" 

"My  father!"  Gloria  took  a  step  forward. 
Her  exclamation  told  what  a  surprise  this  news 
was  to  her. 

[826] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  asked. 

"You  know  as  much  as  I.  I  Ve  told  you 
IVe  not  seen  my  father  since  that  day  in 
Judge  Gilbert's  office.  He  's  been  busy  with 
politics,  but,  more  than  that,  I  Ve— well,  I  Ve 
preferred  staying  with  Mrs.  Hayes." 

Patty,  tired  of  listening  to  a  conversation 
she  could  not  understand,  and,  remembering 
the  visitor,  asked,  "What  shall  I  tell  him  ?" 

"Wait  a  minute,  Patty."  Wright  motioned 
the  child  to  the  door.  Then  he  turned  to 
Gloria.  "You  can  leave  by  this  side  entrance. 
No  one  will  be  the  wiser  for  this  visit.  The 
minute  the  door  closes  behind  you,  Patty — 
and  I — will  have  forgotten  that  you  called. 
But  I  will  not  have  forgotten  your  kindness 
and  consideration.  Before  you  leave  I  want 
you  to  know  that  I  can't  value  too  highly  the 
motive  that  prompted  your  call.  To  the  end 
I  '11  treasure  it  as  a  memory  hallowed  by  the 
parting  from  the  only  woman  I — Good-by." 

He  felt  he  could  not  complete  what  he 
wished  to  say  without  a  show  of  emotion  to 
which  it  would  not  do  to  give  way.     The  only 

[327] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

thing  he  could  do  was  to  hold  out  his  hand  and 
say,  "Good-by." 

Gloria  put  both  hands  behind  her  back,  and 
shook  her  head. 

"No,  I  refuse  to  go." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  just  what  I  say.  I  intend  to  stay 
here  and  meet  my  father  and  hear  what  he  has 
to  say  to  you." 

Wright  gazed  at  her  intently,  but  she  did  not 
quiver  under  his  scrutiny.  His  effort  to 
read  her  thoughts,  to  divine  the  impulse  that 
had  led  her  to  her  decision  to  meet  her  father 
in  his  apartment,  met  with  no  success. 

"It  shall  be  as  you  say,"  he  assented.  "Go, 
Patty,  tell  him  to  come  in."  After  Patty 
closed  the  door  there  was  an  awkward  silence 
which  he  broke  by  saying,  "I  must  say  that  this 
meeting  is  ill-advised." 

She  sighed  and  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  ill-advised  or  not,  my  mind  is  made 
up.  Things  cannot  go  on  as  they  are.  If 
henceforth  I  am  to  direct  my  own  affairs,  why 
should  n't  I  begin  now?" 

[328] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"But  how  explain  your  being  here?" 

"If  he  can't  believe  what  I  have  to  say  he 
is  n't  worth  the  slight  esteem  with  which  I  still 
regard  him." 

"Here  he  comes." 

"Let  him  see  you  first."  She  retreated  to  a 
corner  of  the  room  where  her  father's  first 
glance  as  he  entered  would  not  discover  her. 
Patty  opened  the  door  and  David  Kerr  walked 
into  the  room. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  without 
any  attempt  at  a  feigned  cordiality. 

"Mr.  Wright,"  began  the  boss,  and  at  men- 
tion of  his  name  the  newspaper  man  bowed 
slightly  in  recognition  of  the  greeting,  "I  met 
Dr.  Hayes  this  afternoon.  He  spoke  of  you, 
and  what  he  told  me  has  led  me  to  break  a 
custom  of  years ;  I  've  come  to  see  you.  In  this 
town  it 's  always  been  the  other  way."  He 
spoke  with  all  his  accustomed  force,  and  seemed 
even  more  confident  than  usual  as  he  added, 
"The  old  way  will  continue,  sir,  but  owing  to 
what    you   might   call   the   relationship   that 


once — " 


[329] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Sir!"  thundered  Wright  in  astonishment. 
Covertly  he  looked  at  Gloria,  to  find  his  own 
amazement  mirrored  on  her  face. 

"Bound  us,  I  thought  I  'd  come  to  see  you," 
the  boss  continued,  not  heeding  Wright's  ex- 
clamation. 

"One  minute,  sir."  Wright  was  not  willing 
for  him  to  proceed  without  his  knowing  that 
his  daughter  was  in  the  room  with  them.  "Be- 
fore you  speak  further  you  must  know  that 
we  're  not  alone  in  this  room." 

"We  're  not?"  He  looked  about  him,  and 
at  the  sound  of  a  famihar  voice  turned  sharply 
to  confront  his  daughter. 

"No,  Father;  I  'm  here."  She  advanced 
coolly  to  the  center  of  the  room,  and  waited  for 
him  to  speak. 

"Gloria!  My  daughter  here!"  He  man- 
aged to  gasp.  Wright,  determined  not  to  have 
his  hand  forced,  waited  to  see  what  card  the 
daughter  would  play. 

"Wait  a  minute,  please,"  she  remarked 
quietly,  the  most  self-possessed  of  the  three. 
"Are  you  so  blind  you  can't  see  you  find  me 

[330] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

here  because  I  wish  it  so?  My  visit  to  Mr. 
Wright  surprised  him  just  as  much  as  did 
yours.  When  you  were  announced,  I  told  him 
I  would  stay." 

"So  that's  it,  is  it?"  her  father  raged. 
"Have  you  turned  against  me,  too?  Why 
did  n't  I  raise  you  like  you  ought  to  'a'  been  I" 
It  was  with  an  evident  effort  that  he  was  re- 
straining himself  even  as  much  as  he  was. 

"Would  to  heaven  you  had!"  Gloria  ex- 
claimed in  a  low  tone.  "You  gave  me  only 
the  roses  of  life,  and  now  the  thorns — all  that 
life  offers  me — seem  sharper  than  I  can  bear." 

Wright  had  thought  his  heart  had  been  so 
wrung  that  nothing  could  hurt  him  worse,  but 
this  confession  of  unhappiness  to  her  father 
made  his  own  unhappiness  greater  than  he  had 
believed  it  could  be. 

"Gloria,  this  is  distressingly  painful.  Please 
don't,"  he  begged.  Then  he  turned  to  her 
father.     "Why  have  you  come  here?" 

"Why  is  she  here?" 

"Father,"  now  she  spoke  timidly,  a  maiden 
telling  of  a  dear,  dead  love,  "for  a  little  while 

[331] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

Mr.  Wright  and  I — were  engaged — to  be 
married.  I  don't  think  you  know  what  that 
means  to  a  girl,  what  it  meant  to  me.  But  you 
do  know  how  it  ended.  Yet  we  're  still  such 
good  friends  that  I  felt  I  could  come  this  after- 
noon to — " 

As  she  spoke,  a  great  light  began  to  dawn 
upon  her  father.  At  the  words,  "good  friends'* 
he  saw  his  whole  plan  successful,  although 
worked  out  along  lines  a  trifle  different  than 
what  had  been  in  his  mind  when  he  had  deter- 
mined to  call  upon  the  editor.  Your  suc- 
cessful general  is  a  great  opportunist,  and 
David  Kerr  was  quick  to  seize  this  opportun- 

ity. 

"Good  friends  I"  he  echoed,  interrupting  her. 
"Then  I  'm  glad  I  found  you  here.  Just  listen 
to  me  a  minute.  I  ain't  got  much  to  say,  Mr. 
Wright,  but  we  understand  each  other  pretty 
well.  Now  then — you  gave  us  a  pretty  hard 
bump,  an'  I  admire  you  fer  it.  Of  course, 
you  're  new  to  Belmont  an'  it  looks  all  right 
from  yer  p'int  o'  view."  His  tone  was  now 
suave  and  conciHatory.     "But  you  're  too  good 

[332] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

a  man  to  be  blockin'  the  wheels  o'  progress  in 
this  town." 

"Things  were  running  pretty  smooth  when  I 
came  here,  weren't  they?"  Wright  was  will- 
ing to  admit  that  much. 

"Exactly,  exactly."  Kerr  took  a  step  for- 
ward and  glanced  at  Gloria  before  he  went 
on.  "Now  then,  what  do  you  say  to  this? 
You  ain't  no  more  republican  than  you're 
democrat,  so  switch  over  an'  join  me.  If  it 's 
too  strong  fer  you  to  go,  I  'U  cut  out  that 
Maple  Avenue  railway  line,  an'  we  '11  go  at  it 
some  other  way." 

Gloria  looked  at  her  father  in  astonishment. 
Wright  did  not  interrupt  him,  wishing  to  hear 
all  that  he  had  to  say.  "This  campaign  's 
taught  me  I  'm  growin'  old.  Some  day  some- 
body 's  got  to  take  my  place.  There  ain't  a 
man  in  the  party  with  your  sense.  I  need  you, 
an' — what 's  more — ^you  '11  profit  by  bein'  with 
me. 

"Mr.  Kerr,  it  won't  take  me  many  words  to 
give  you  your  answer." 

Reading  disapproval  in  the  remark,  David 

1333] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

Kerr  craftily  replied  with  his  kindest  manner, 
"Take  yer  time,  take  yer  time.  The  more  you 
think  it  over,  the  more  you  '11  like  it.  Besides, 
I  'm  thinkin'  of  Gloria.  You  two  talk  it  over. 
She  's— " 

"Father!"  The  girl  was  perfectly  horrified 
and  her  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  outraged 
by  having  her  name  dragged  into  the  discus- 
sion. "Would  you  dare  connect  my  name 
with  such  an  aifair!" 

To  the  coarse  nature  all  things  are  coarse, 
and  her  father  seemed  surprised  that  she 
should  resent  the  manner  in  which  he  had  con- 
nected her  with  the  offer.  "An'  why  not?" 
he  asked.  "I  Ve  been  thinkin'  the  matter  over, 
an'  you  an'  him  would  make  a  pretty  good 
team." 

"Oh  I"  Gloria's  disgust  was  unspeakable. 
Mere  rage  was  useless  to  express  her  feelings. 
She  gave  her  father  one  withering  look  and 
turned  away,  walking  up  and  down  the  room 
like  a  caged  animal. 

Kerr  turned  to  Wright,  since  Gloria  ap- 
peared to  have  no  inclination  to  listen.     "So 

[334] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

I  argues,  why  not  fix  it  up  between  us."  Then 
he  spoke  to  his  daughter  in  explanation,  "Not 
knowin'  you  'd  be  here.  But  it 's  just  as  well. 
Now,  Mr.  Wright,  what  I  say  is  this:  This 
town  wants  somebody  to  run  it.  Behnont 
can't  git  along  without  somebody  to  keep  the 
wheels  greased.  I  '11  put  the  paper  on  its  feet 
fer  you,  an*  gradually — as  gradually  as  you 
like — you  kin  come  over  to  my  way  of  thinkin'. 
Then  what  'd  be  more  natural  than  fer  you  to 
take  over  the  runnin'  o'  things — especially  as 
you  'd  be  my  son-in-law." 

Wright  was  about  to  make  reply,  but  Gloria 
was  too  quick  for  him.  Stamping  her  foot 
with  rage,  she  paused  before  her  father  defi- 
antly. 

"Oh,  this  is  more  than  I  can  bear!  Am  I  a 
dog,  a  horse,  a  pig,  that  I  can  be  traded  in  a 
dirty  deal  with  not  so  much  as  'by  your  leave.' 
I  '11  not  stand  it  for  another  instant.  One  hu- 
miliation after  another  has  been  my  lot,  but 
this  is  the  last.  I  'm  through  ^v^th  you.  What 
has  passed  has  taught  j^ou  nothing;  you  *re  the 
bargaining,  trading,  scheming  politician  still, 

lS35} 


THE  DAUGHTER 

so  low  that  you  'd  make  your  own  daughter, 
your  own  flesh  and  blood,  the  bait  to  lure  a 
good  man  from  his  purpose.  But  you  can't 
do  it,"  she  cried,  a  note  of  triumph  creeping 
into  her  denunciation;  "he's  not  your  kind. 
And  do  you  believe  that  I  'd  submit  to  such  a 
thing?  What  can  you  think  of  me?  You 
put  me  on  a  plane  with  those  vile  creatures 
who  pay  you  for  protection." 

"Gloria,  please  stop!"  Wright  pleaded. 
Her  father  could  only  look  at  her  in  wonder 
as  she  poured  out  the  pent-up  passion  of  her 
inmost  soul. 

"No,  I  '11  not  stop — ^there  's  more  to  say. — 
Here,  within  this  hour,  Mr.  Wright  asked 
me  again  to  be  his  wife,  and  I  refused — refused 
because  of  you.  I  came  here  to  warn  him 
against  you,  to  tell  him  the  truth,  because  once 
we  loved  each  other.  No  one  can  blame  me 
for  wishing  him  well.  I  came  to  tell  him  be- 
cause I  can't  be  here  after  this  to  save  him  as 
once  I  did.  Over  my  body  I  dared  your  hire- 
lings to  take  him,  and  not  one  moved.  Now 
I  'm  going  away  forever  and  I  want  him  to 

[336] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

have  what  protection  the  truth  will  give.  But 
my  warning  would  be  useless ;  what  you  offered 
to  do  just  now  is  warning  enough  in  itself. 
The  man  who  would  sell  his  own  daughter  is 
capable  of  anything!" 

"Please,  Gloria,  stop,"  Wright  entreated. 
"I  'm  not  accustomed  to  have  any  one  else  fight 
my  battles  for  me.  I  can  take  care  of  my- 
self." 

"May  be  you  can,"  sneered  the  boss,  "but 
ever  since  you  've  been  here  you  Ve  been  hidin' 
behind  my  daughter.  It 's  because  o'  her  I 
didn't  go  after  you  hot  an'  heavy  long  ago. 
An'  then  when  they  did  come  near  gittin'  you 
the  other  day,  she  stopped  'em.'* 

"You,  Gloria!"  Wright  could  not  under- 
stand.    She  only  bowed  her  head. 

"But  now,  by  God!  that 's  all  past."  Kerr 
brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table  with  a  bang. 
His  breath  came  in  apoplectic  gasps  and  his 
face  was  livid  with  rage.  "She 's  out  of  it  as 
fer  as  I  'm  concerned.  I  did  everything  in  the 
world  fer  her,  an'  it  wasn't  no  use."  He 
turned  to  his  daughter  as  he  hurled  out  his  an- 

22  [337] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

ger  and  disappointment  between  his  gasps  for 
breath.  "I  was  ready  to  stan'  by  you  to  the 
end,  an'  what  do  I  git  fer  all  my  schemin'  an' 
plannin'  fer  you?  Nothin'  but  glum  looks  an' 
harsh  words.  If  yer  goin'  away,  go.  I  dis- 
own you.     I  cast  you  off." 

The  girl  did  not  quail  beneath  his  bitter 
words.  They  only  inflamed  her  to  announce 
the  decision  she  had  already  made.  Her  lip 
curled  with  scorn,  her  eyes  snapped,  as  she 
looked  at  her  father. 

"You  disown  me!  You  cast  me  off!"  All 
the  contempt  she  could  muster  she  threw  into 
her  voice.  "What  right  have  you,  who  would 
barter  me  away  as  you  would  a  horse  or  dog? 
No,  it 's  I  disown  you!" 

Wright  walked  over  to  her  and  sought  to 
take  her  hand  gently  in  his,  but  she  drew  away. 
She  would  stand  alone.  Like  a  blind  old  bear 
David  Kerr  seemed  to  grope  his  way  to  the 
door.  There  he  turned  to  gaze  once  more  upon 
the  wreck  of  his  latest  schemes.  His  rage  was 
still  hot  upon  him. 

[338] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

"I  found  you  in  this — this — adventurer's 
room.  I  leave  you  here.  Look  to  yerself, 
you  are  no  child  o'  mine." 

The  door  banged  behind  him  and  Gloria 
Kerr  knew  that  they  had  met  for  the  last  time. 
The  girl,  feeling  so  miserably  alone  in  the 
world,  turned  to  find  bent  upon  her  the  tender 
gaze  of  the  man  whom  she  had  once  sworn  to 
follow  to  the  end  of  the  world.  For  them  love 
was  dead,  she  knew,  and  now  life  would  be  for 
her  only  a  succession  of  weary  days. 

"I  thought  all  but  my  body  died  that  day 
we  spoke  of  love  to  find  it  but  a  dream,"  she 
acknowledged  sadly,  "yet  there  was  one  cup 
still  more  bitter  I  had  to  drain — and  this  was 
that  cup's  dregs." 

"Oh,  Gloria,  believe  me,  out  of  unhappiness 
happiness  comes.  Your  place  is  with  me  now. 
I  had  n't  told  you,  but  I,  too,  am  going  away 
forever.  And  what  is  more,  I  'm  going  to  take 
you  with  me." 

She  looked  at  him  in  wonder,  then  slowly 
shook  her  head. 

[S39] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"No,  you  can't  leave  Belmont,  Joe.  You  're 
not  a  coward.  I  'm  going,  but  your  place  is 
here." 

"Do  you  think  I  shall  let  you  go  alone? 
Never.  The  one  reason  I  am  going  East  is  to 
sell  the  Belmont  News.  I  'm  through  with  it. 
Then  I  shall  follow  you  over  the  world  until  I 
make  you  mine — because  I  love  you." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  the  faintest  of 
smiles  battling  with  her  settled  melancholy. 
He  was  bordering  on  melodrama,  and  she 
was  regarding  him  with  the  same  gentle- 
ness a  loving  mother  exhibits  toward  an  unrea- 
soning little  child. 

"How  selfish  you  are,  Joe.  All  your  fine 
sermons  are  going  for  naught.  You  've 
preached  of  your  duty,  and  yet  at  the  chance 
to  show  your  devotion  to  that  duty  you  're 
wanting  to  give  up  the  fight.  I  'm  not  worth 
it,  Joe,  really  I  'm  not.  Think  of  Belmont. 
A  general  does  n't  desert  his  soldiers  after  a 
victory,  just  because  he  knows  the  enemy  has 
sent  for  reinforcements.  That  would  be  cow- 
ardly, and  it  is  n't  like  you,  Joe.     The  brave 

[340] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

general  doesn't  give  ground,  he  advances. 
Don't  follow  me;  I  would  hate  you.  I  know 
how  Belmont  needs  you." 

"But  I  need  you,  Gloria.  And  what  is 
more,  you  need  me  and  I  can't  let  you  go 
alone.  There  is  a  world  elsewhere,  even  other 
Belmonts  where  we  can  live  and  labor  and  love. 
I  didn't  know  till  your  father  referred  to  it 
that  you  were  at  Noonan's  that  day.  Can't 
you  see  how  I  need  you  for  my  guardian  an- 
gel?    How  did  you  happen  to  be  there?'* 

Briefly  she  detailed  the  visit,  minimizing  her 
part  in  saving  him.  None  the  less  he  was  able 
to  see  that  it  was  to  her  he  owed  perhaps  life 
itself.  He  listened  in  silence,  letting  her  tell 
her  story  in  her  own  way.  After  she  had 
ceased  to  speak  he  still  was  silent,  going  over 
in  his  mind  the  motives  which  might  have 
prompted  her  in  coming  now  to  see  him,  to 
warn  him,  as  she  had  said.  His  heart  led  him 
to  but  one  conclusion,  a  conclusion  he  reached 
gladly.  He  believed  she  still  loved  him.  She 
was  a  woman,  therefore  to  be  won.  There  was 
just  one  way  to  win  her,  he  felt. 

[341] 


THE  DAUGHTER 

"Gloria,  I've  come  to  a  decision."  She 
looked  at  him  questioningly.  "I  'm  going 
to  do  what  you  Ve  ordered.  I  'm  going  to 
stay  here  and  fight  for  Belmont." 

"Joe,  you  mean  it!"  Her  face  lit  up  with 
pleasure  and  she  held  out  both  her  hands  to 
him.  He  took  them  both,  and  to  her  surprise, 
and  despite  her  resistance,  drew  her  to  him. 

"But  I  'm  not  going  to  stay  alone.  If  I  'm 
to  fight  the  good  fight,  I  'm  not  going  to  fight 
alone.  You  called  me  a  coward  for  wanting 
to  go;  won't  you  reward  me  for  deciding  to 
stay?  And  out  of  unhappiness  happiness 
will  come.  You  must  stay,  Gloria;  our  place 
is  here." 

"Our  place !"  she  echoed,  and  then  was  silent 
for  a  little  time,  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 
He  held  her  tightly,  she  could  not  escape. 
The  feeble  efforts  she  had  made  to  break  from 
him  were  now  abandoned  as  she  thought  more 
and  more  upon  his  words.  At  last  she  looked 
up  at  him  and  smiled.  "Yes,  Joe,  our  place 
is  here,  and  our  happiness.  Right  in  this  room 
all  my  old  pride  died.     But  there  has  been 

[342] 


OF  DAVID  KERR 

born  a  new  pride,  a  pride  in  you  and  in  me,  and 
in  what  it  has  been  given  us  to  do."  The  tears 
came  into  her  eyes  as  she  thought  of  what  they 
were  to  each  other.  "You  are  all  I  have  in  the 
world,  dear ;  you  are  my  world.  Make  me  al- 
ways proud  that  I  am  your  wife." 

Wright  drew  her  closer  to  his  heart  and 
kissed  her.  And  there  in  the  shelter  of  his 
arms  she  rested.    Peace  had  come  to  her. 


THE  END. 


[343] 


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